


In Shadows

by SootyOwl



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Bonding, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, First Age, Forbidden Love, Fourth Age, Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Long, M/M, Magic, No Smut, Orcs, Prophecy, Royalty, Secrets, Slash, Slow Burn, The Silmarillion References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-23 00:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14320629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SootyOwl/pseuds/SootyOwl
Summary: The lands of Middle-Earth have known twenty five years of peace after the fall of Sauron, yet an ancient enemy is about to resurface. The children of the heroes of the War of the Ring must now take up their parents' mantle and defend their people from this new threat. Secrets start to form and a new power rises within them. Can they master it in time?Set in the Fourth Age, this fic features Eldarion, son of Aragorn, Elboron, son of Faramir and Neniel, daughter of Legolas on a quest to master a new magical power to defeat and ancient enemy from the First Age. Adventure, love, sacrifice and family bonds will test them all to their limits.





	1. Chapter 1

The Shadow Begins

 

It lay within a shadowed valley, seeming to grow out of the very backbone of the Ephel Duath, its many towers and steep walls as dark as the earth that surrounded it. Once it had been a vale of light and beauty, the city a shining bastion of illumination for the weary hearts and souls of travellers. More recently it had been a beacon of horror, sending waves of terror through anyone unfortunate enough to glimpse it within its corrupt valley of death. The luminous glow it once had was now extinguished, but despite the city’s emptiness, the sense of watchfulness had not abated. Though the foul stream that once had led there was now dry, the bridge shattered and the fields surrounded it reduced to ashes, evil still lurked there.

Minas Morgul, once Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, was abandoned, bereft of all foul things that had made it their home in the years of darkness. Men of Gondor had no wish to resettle here; the land too tainted for anyone to thrive save the lowliest beasts, nor would they even if the land were fertile, for still the memory of this evil place lingered and none would dare set foot here. Even the decrees of King Elessar, swift and relentless in the early years of his reign in ordering the immediate destruction of the city had not resulted in much success. The outer wall had been demolished quickly, but when the workers of Gondor started to fall prey to a malign sickness that quickly rooted itself in their very bones, they soon abandoned the endeavour, trusting to the valley’s reputation to deter outside infiltrators.

A mistake they soon shall regret.

The shadowy figure surveyed the valley, a glimmer of hope in his eye, his upper lip curling. The legends then were true. Nothing could live here long, nothing could bear it. Good then that he was not counted among the living.

The fall of Sauron over one score years ago had not killed off the darkness in Middle-Earth. Indeed, his removal had caused much of it to thrive, free now to spread and multiply in a way once impossible with his powerful presence in the world. The shadowy figure smiled. He had not felt this powerful in many an age. Finally, he was free from the eternal imprisonment to which he had been confined. First Morgoth, then Sauron had prevented him from gaining back the power he had been denied. But now both of them were gone beyond the circles of the world. Slowly he had been building his strength and now at last he could come out into the open once more to fulfil the task he had been set countless years before.

Doom lay upon this task as it had from the very beginning. He had suffered under that doom, as had his people, but this ancient grievance could not be laid aside so easily. It  _must_  be accomplished. Family honour demanded it. He could never have rested until it was complete.

The figure turned his head as another shadowy form appeared at his shoulder. An Orc. Foul as the rest of its kin, yet more so, for this Orc was also not of the living, and if possible, more detestable than any Man would ever think possible of an Orc. The shadowy figure turned away slightly, disgusted by the other’s presence, yet knew it was necessary.  _Sometimes we must do the unthinkable to achieve the impossible._

“We take the city then?” the Orc grunted, leering at the sight before him.

“Indeed.”

The Orc spat on the ground. “It’s a Man-city. With an Elvish name. It’s not our way.”

“It is a ready-made fortress,” the shadowy figure replied, eyes fixed on the city. “Evil dwelt here many centuries and made it strong. Elves and Men will not dare tread here. It suits our purpose precisely.”

The Orc looked unimpressed. “And look what happened to them. Morgoth’s little pet was destroyed by half-grown  _Men_. How strong could they have been?”

The shadowy figure smiled. “This shall be our city,” he said, ignoring his companion. “This shall be the place that shadow will flourish and grow strong once more. Realms shall fall.  _Mountains_  shall fall. Even the evil that dwelt there before could not have stood in our way.”

The Orc grinned an ugly leering grin, revealing a maw of fangs and stench of decay on his breath. He turned and issued a bellowing cry to the darkness behind him, a cry that echoed across the detestable valley making the very stones tremble.

Slowly, out of the darkness, shapes appeared. Orcs. Shadowed Orcs, neither living nor dead. They glowed with a luminosity that was not natural, a light not wholesome but cold and glowering. A part of the shadow they seemed, like lights in the night sky, only these lights promised naught but death and despair. Like a colony of ants they fell upon the city in droves, more and more emerging from the blackness to occupy this once fair city with evil once more.

The shadowy figure stood and watched from his perch upon the ridge at the mouth of the valley as the unearthly gleam of Minas Morgul was slowly restored. Cold and deathly was the light, more malevolent, more sinister than it had looked at its height under Sauron the Abhorrent.

His long wait was now finally over. His long-forgotten oath would be fulfilled.

 

****

 

Screams rang out through the smoke of the burning village. Black smoke and orange flame was all that was left of the world around them.  They were dying.

The Rider of Rohan had sped to the village once he had spied the plume of black on the horizon on his patrols of the East Emnet, his horse close to collapsing under him. The searing heat as he approached had made his heart quail in terror, yet he continued on, hoping against hope he could do some good here. Yet what could he do? One man against such an inferno?

Already he could see blackened corpses amongst the houses and his stomach turned in revulsion. A flash of colour met his eyes, and to his relief he could see a fleeing mass of people emerging from the flames, alive by some wondrous chance. His heart was lifted. The very next moment however his courage almost failed him altogether when he saw what it was they were truly running from.

He had never seen Orcs before. He had been but a child during Théoden’s reign, safely ensconced in the caverns at Helm’s Deep for the wars that had plagued his homeland. They had all but disappeared from the land after the battle at Pelennor. However even he knew what Orcs were supposed to look like; he had listened to the tales of his elders. Something was different about these Orcs. Were they supposed to be that tall? Why did they glow like that? What evil was this?

He watched helplessly as the lead Orc began to cut down those villagers that lagged behind, a gleam in his eyes that could stop the heart of a lesser man. But a courage had risen in him that he had not known he had possessed. One man alone he may be, but he was a Rider of the Mark, a servant of King Éomer who had decreed long ago that no man, woman or child of the Riddermark would ever be subject to evil again. If die he would, then he would fall in the service of his king, and of the greater good.

He drew his sword and charged his horse forwards. “For Rohan!”

The Orcs did not draw back as he approached. They did not falter, not even seem to acknowledge his presence. Not until he was upon them did the lead Orc turn to face him. A face loomed out of the darkness, a skull-like face with eyes that were as black as night, but home to a swirling abyss of flame and shadow. A cold dread seized him then. The thing that faced him was no Orc. It was a demon of shadow, a fell creature from beyond the grave.

His sword shone with fire as he raised it above his head. He brought it down full force upon the head of the Orc before him. Instead of slicing through flesh and bone, his sword seemed to pass through the air, slowed only by a slight resistance, as though through water. He almost dropped his weapon in shock as instead of the thick black blood he had heard tell of, black shadow seemed to issue from the wound, snaking from the Orc like smoke. The Orc fell, and more of the shadow seeped from it, joining the blackness of the surrounding air. The corpse seemed to shrivel up until it was nothing more than black mark on the earth.

_What devilry is this?_

The lead Orc, its sword stained with red, now approached him. It spoke in a strange language and laughed, and the surrounding Orcs joined in until he was surrounded by a chorus of baying horrible monsters.

_There could be no escape from this._

****

 

The Scout from Gondor worried when his counterpart from Rohan did not meet him at the prescribed hour. It was most irregular. Since Elessar and Éomer’s reaffirmation of the bonds of old between the kingdoms it had been customary for riders of both lands to patrol the borders with a continuous rotation. Where the two lands converged at the small yet significant Mering stream it was customary for the riders to meet their counterparts and report any observations. The young rider from Rohan whose rotation always coincided with his own had never missed a meeting during his tenure.

The Scout waited at the spot beside the stream all day, straining his eyes across the plains of Rohan for a glimpse of the eager lad who always had such vigour and passion, despite the mundanity of his posting. The much older Scout was satisfied with his lot, patrolling the province of Anórien and meeting the rider from the Eastfold every month. It was not a taxing position; the very thing for one whose bones were beginning to creak, and whose shoulder had never quite recovered from the sack of Osgiliath.

As night began to fall his misgivings intensified. What should he do? Should he attempt to find out what had happened? He doubted whether he should enter into Rohan; the laws on respecting sovereignty were very clear. Yet it did not seem right to him to continue on.

He climbed onto his horse and began to ride away. The next two riders should arrive within the next few days, and he could not stray from his own schedule. If anything had gone ill with the boy the next horseman would discover it, and unlike the Scout would have the authority to act.

His horse stopped in its tracks, and unbidden turned back to the Mering Stream as though some unknown force was compelling it. The Scout hesitated.

The old soldier was awake inside him once more. Something was wrong here and every instinct was telling him to go and find out what. A fire he had not known since his youth in Lord Boromir’s platoon surged forth from within.

Without another thought he spurred his horse onwards and splashed through the waters of the stream into the realm of Rohan.

 


	2. A Disturbing Report

 A Disturbing Report

In the barracks of the Citadel Guard the training arena was thronged with soldiers both from the Guard and other companies, all eagerly pushing their way through the ranks to get a better view of proceedings. An event highly anticipated and long overdue, none wanted to miss a single instant. A few latecomers flew inside to join the crowd which lined the four walls of the arena with all their faces turned into the centre and the two men who stood there.

Raegon, towering and broad, the foremost warrior of Gondor stood at one end, covered head to foot in fine, thick armour that shone in the light and shimmered as he moved. His helm obscured most of his face, but a dark scowl was yet visible, and all could see the way his hands were tightly clenched on his sword and the tenseness in his strong shoulders. Veteran of the king’s campaigns against the Easterlings, he had experience on his side and a lot of it. All who faced him in battle fled before him. He was a mass of power, a giant of Gondor and one of its finest sons.

Across from him stood a man even taller, yet slender and slight in figure, deceptively so, for this man’s strength was no less. Almost two decades the other man’s junior, his face was youthful and fresh, yet in his features there lay a trace of nobility that promised to grow yet more so in time. No helm was upon his head of raven black hair, and his grey eyes sparkled with a hidden fervour. Those who looked upon him for the first time would attest that they were not fully certain whether this individual was Man or Elf, for his fair features and slightly pointed ears were disarming to their clearly defined notions of what was what. A Man he was, yet not fully so, for he was the son of Elessar and Undómiel, the image of his father in youth but still possessing the Elven features of his mother’s kin. The name chosen for him reflected this dual heritage. He was Eldarion, Child of the Eldar.

Raegon and Eldarion faced each other, weapons in hands and feet light and ready for action. Eldarion offered a smile to Raegon’s scowl. No scores of battles had he been in, but he had youth on his side, and rarely burdened himself with heavy armour, choosing to fight in a light coat of mail only. Raegon was strong, but slow. And he was in a foul mood.

Raegon let loose a war cry that once had sounded across the battlefields in the south, but Eldarion showed no fear. He nimbly leapt out of the way of the warrior’s strong blow and twisted his body round to face the back of him. His eyes remained fixed on his opponent, alert for every shifting of his weight, every motion no matter how slight. Raegon spun around and quick as a flash Eldarion had parried the man’s latest blow, the sound of steel on steel loud across the arena where the crowd watched in captivated silence. A few more blows rained down on him but Eldarion parried each one and with each strike he took a step forward, bearing down on his opponent and gaining ground.

Raegon was losing patience and Eldarion knew it. He was a man that thought little, trusting to strength than wisdom. Persistence would win the day.

A few moments later and Eldarion saw his opening. He’d left his left flank exposed, and Eldarion knew only too well how to take advantage of that. Raegon lunged for him with a blow so powerful it would have knocked the youth clean off his feet, yet it was he who somehow ended up flat on his back, a sword resting lightly on his throat as Eldarion smiled down at him.

The watching crowd cheered, and there was a clinking of coins as wagers exchanged hands. Eldarion laughed lightly and lifted his sword, sheathing it at his hip.

“Perhaps now you will not be so quick to dismiss me, Raegon,” he said, a smirk still on his face. “I warned you this would happen if you continued as you did.”

A few scattered laughs greeted this as several men nodded fiercely, cheering once again. Raegon reached up and wrenched his helm from his head, dark hair plastered to his pink forehead.

“A boy like you should not be so quick to cause insult to your elders,” he spat, lurching to his feet. “Regardless of who your father is.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Eldarion snapped, his hand resting on his sword.

“It means,” Raegon said, stepping closer, “that being the son of the king does not mean you can be so careless with your words and your sword. You cannot swan around this city as you like, pampered lord one day and soldier the next. You know nothing of what it is to be a warrior. You know nothing of what it is to be a _man_ , Peredhel.”

The room had gone silent again, eyes nervously flicking between the two men. Eldarion stared the man down coldly, his hand tightening on his blade.

“Perhaps you suggest that some form of Elvish magic protects me, Raegon,” Eldarion said, his jaw tight. “I assure you that is not the case. Elven strength I may have inherited from my mother, but my skills as a fighter are entirely my own. A sore loser is what you are, and pitiful is the man who seeks to lay blame for his own frailties upon others.”

Raegon scoffed, and turned his back on the young man. “And a man who lives on the glory of the deeds of his father rather than on his own is equally as pathetic.”

Eldarion felt a spike of rage ignite within him, yet before he could draw his sword, a small hand rested on his shoulder.

“It would stand you in good stead, Raegon,” said the figure beside him, “if you were to speak fairer words to your prince. Disloyalty to the crown is a far greater shame than being knocked to the ground by a superior opponent in this realm. Particularly by one of the Citadel Guard.”

Raegon made no reply, and barged his way out of the arena through shocked onlookers. Eldarion cursed to himself for making such a show. Half the city would hear of this in an hour. The other half seemed to be here already.

He turned to the man at his shoulder as the crowd began to dissipate. “Thank you, Elboron.”

His friend smiled. “Just in time to prevent you making another rash decision, I take it?”

“As always,” Eldarion said, beginning to laugh.

Elboron smiled once more, but soon his face was troubled and he gave his usual disappointed pout.

“You need to be more careful, Eldarion. You cannot be seen to be picking fights with your father’s personal guard.”

“I know, but I am sick of his insinuations and snide comments. I cannot let that slide.”

“Perhaps not, but there are better ways of dealing with it.” Elboron sighed and shook his head. “You cannot challenge every man you disagree with to a duel. You’ll get yourself into serious trouble one day, my friend.”

Eldarion nodded, seeing the wisdom in his friend’s words. Yet that wisdom always seemed so far away to him when in the heat of the moment. He had never been one to think through his actions. In that, he and Elboron were as different as night and day. The other young man could sit for hours at a time in total silence with only the company of his thoughts or an old scroll. Too long now had he been acting as Eldarion’s unofficial counsel. Good practice, Elboron always said, for when he succeeded his father as Steward.

“Lord Eldarion!” The two men looked up as a servant approached them and bowed. “Your father requests your presence at once, my lord. And yours also, Lord Elboron.”

Eldarion felt a rising panic. His father had heard of this already? He exchanged a worried glance with his friend before the two of them made their way out of the barracks. Neither said a word as they followed the servant to the Citadel, passing the White Tree in its courtyard. As always when he passed, Eldarion slowed his step to gaze upon it, thinking of its history and significance in this city of stone, the tree of his ancestors. Raegon’s words came back to him unbidden. _A man who lives on the glory of the deeds of his father rather than on his own ..._

They were ushered into the throne room immediately by some of the Citadel Guard (those who had evidently not gone to watch the fight) and were brought before the throne of the king. Eldarion’s father was not seated upon it, but stood at its base. Though now well over a hundred years old, King Elessar was not yet old and withered. His dark hair was stringed with grey and his face had several lines graven upon it, but his body was yet full of vitality and his face had lost none of its noble quality. The green elfstone that was his namesake gleamed at his breast, but instead of lighting his face as usual, his father seemed grim and tense. A scout stood by him, evidently by his dress and demeanour only recently arrived in the city. Inwardly Eldarion relaxed; it appeared his deeds in the barracks had not yet reached his father’s ears.

He and Elboron bowed their heads as they approached. His father gestured to the scout.

“A disturbing report has reached me from Rohan,” he began, “and I would have you both here to hear it.”

“From Rohan?” Eldarion frowned. “What scouts have we in Rohan?”

“None,” his father replied. The scout shifted his feet.

“I entered into that land, prince, without authority. No insult intended to your uncle, my lord,” he said hastily to Elboron. “I pray King Éomer forgives the intrusion when he learns of what has occurred in his land.”

Elboron blinked in surprise and looked to the king, whose lips had tightened. “This news must be conveyed to Éomer but I also ask you here, Elboron, not as Éomer’s nephew, but in your newest capacity as Captain of the Tower.”

Elboron nodded, but Eldarion knew that the younger man was alarmed by this. Barely turned eighteen he had only recently taken on the hereditary title of the oldest son of the Steward, last held by his father during the War of the Ring twenty-five years ago. A title only reluctantly accepted.

Eldarion and Elboron listened as the scout related his patrol of Anórien and the missed rendezvous with the man of Rohan, and the man’s decision to enter into that land without leave. He told of how he soon came upon a burnt-out village in the Eastfold in the shadows of the White Mountains.

“It was no ordinary fire, my lords,” the man said, his face pale and wan. “Everything was ash, nothing remained, not even bodies. None escaped.” He paused before continuing in a voice that began to tremble. “There was one man yet alive. It was the lad from the Eastfold. Just a boy really. He hadn’t been burned. He was staked out upon the ground, naked, half of his skin sliced off so that from a distance I’d thought he was a butchered animal.” The man steadied himself with a breath. “He’d been there a full day in the sun like that, barely alive, going slowly mad with pain. He was ranting in Rohirric and seemed not to understand my questions. In the end I got something out of him in Westron. Orcs, he said to me, though not Orcs of the common variety. Taller than men they were, glowing like malevolent stars, and when struck, they bled shadows. Barely had he said this when he finally died.”

A chill went down Eldarion’s spine as he saw the terror in the man’s eyes. Orcs, in Rohan? There had been nothing like it since Eldarion’s childhood in the early years of his father’s reign. And what manner of Orcs were they that bled shadows?

Elboron had gone still beside him, and Eldarion knew he grieved for this man. He took everything so to heart, and this more so, for the dead were of his mother’s people.

His father turned to the two youths, expression troubled. “An incursion by Orcs into the West is something we must address swiftly lest we return to the days of old. I cannot think whence these creatures came, for they must have crossed many lands to reach the Eastfold and it seems impossible to me that they were not seen.”

“They must have come from the Misty Mountains,” Eldarion reasoned. “It is the only place they have left in Middle-Earth. As for how they reached the Eastfold …”

“Why the Eastfold?” Elboron asked, frowning. “What is there to be gained in massacring an insignificant village?” 

“The creation of terror was ever the Enemy’s greatest weapon,” his father said gravely. He turned to the scout and dismissed him. “I have no time to send word to Éomer, so we must act without him. Eldarion, assemble a unit of cavalry to track down these Orcs. Be ready to leave before nightfall and ride swiftly to the border. Track them down and destroy them if possible. If not, find out whence they came and their company size and armament. Take whomever you see fit, but take Bergil with you at least.”

Eldarion scoffed. “Bergil? He is a-”

“A lot more experienced in warfare than my twenty year old son,” his father said, sternly, and he knew there would be no argument. He looked to Elboron. “I place you second-in-command, representing both Gondor and Rohan for this concerns both kingdoms.”

Elboron nodded, and bowed. Eldarion glanced at him, wondering how he really felt about this. Though possessing the golden hair of the Rohirrim, like his father before him Elboron was a reluctant fighter. He often wondered if the king had been right to appoint him to his father’s old position.

His father paused, looking over them both. “I fear a return to the days of raiding parties of Orcs in the West. I want you to make sure that does not happen. Go now and prepare.”

They murmured their assent and turned to leave, but Eldarion was called back by his father.

“I want you to be careful, my son,” he said to him, as Elboron left. “This news disturbs me greatly. I do not know if this mission is wise.”

Eldarion breathed deeply, keeping his temper and pushing back the hurt he felt. “I am quite capable, father.”

“I know you are a capable fighter, but that is not all that matters in situations as these,” his father said. “You must also take time to think through your actions, to take the advice of those older and more experienced. You are still young-”

“You fought in wars when you were my age,” Eldarion retorted. “You were out winning glory on the battlefield with as little experience as me.”

“I was not winning glory,” his father said gently, expression softening. “I was fighting a rising evil that threatened our very existence. I did not seek to win anything other than peace.”

 _But you did not have a father such as mine_ , Eldarion thought, glancing at the sword on his father’s hip, the Sword of Elendil. _How am I ever supposed to live up to that?_

His father followed his gaze and sighed. “You are often too rash, Eldarion,” he said. “That is what I fear for you; that fighting has become something of a hobby when it should only ever be a necessity.”

He sighed again, and met his son’s gaze with eyes as grey as his own. “I heard about your planned duel with Raegon. I had hoped you were past this foolishness.”

Eldarion tore his eyes away from his father, a sinking feeling in his gut. “Sorry to disappoint you, my lord.”

His father was silent a moment longer, hesitating as though wishing to say something more but not knowing how.

“I digress,” he said finally with a heavy tone. “I was speaking of the report. These Orcs are unlike any I have heard of, more formidable and likely dangerous. You have not yet been tested against ordinary Orcs, and I fear these may prove a challenge you are not prepared for.”

Eldarion looked up, a new determination flooding through him. “What else could they be but ordinary Orcs?” he asked. “I can do this, Father. I will go and meet this Orc-pack and destroy them as you ask. Perhaps then I will prove myself in the least bit worthy of you.”

Before his father could say anything else he turned and swiftly left the room. Once into the courtyard he took a deep breath and tried to stay his rapid heart. All he seemed to do these days was to somehow disappoint his father. Always he was too focused on swordcraft or stories of the glory of Númenor, too prideful, too competitive … the burden of his father’s accomplishments had lain on him always. Now that Sauron was gone, with what was he to win renown? His father’s purpose had always been clear, but what of his own?

At least this band of Orcs would be a start. He stared straight ahead at the Tree for one last look before heading back to the barracks to select his company. The white branches filled his vision, reminding him of all the glory of his forebears with its brilliance.

The vision swam before his eyes, burning its way into his mind, before suddenly changing right before him. In that moment he beheld not the White Tree he knew, but a vast waterfall in a narrow gully, glowing orange with the light of a dying sun. It lasted a brief moment and in that moment he experienced a wave of profound sadness and frustration he could not explain. The vision flickered for an instant, alternating between tree and waterfall before finally vanishing, leaving him staring at the White Tree as before, as though nothing strange had occurred.

He stood still for a moment, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He blinked a few times, trying to see if the waterfall would return. When several minutes had passed, the vision seemed almost like a dream and he began to relax somewhat.

He shook himself and started to march out of the courtyard towards the barracks. His encounter with his father had shaken him more than he had thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story, although set in the Fourth Age, will be slightly different to the one laid out by Tolkien. I’ve taken certain characters and ideas and moved them around a little to suit my story, especially with the dates of birth of Eldarion and Elboron. There are quite a few small things like that which have been changed, but I can’t remember them all individually. Also, any Elvish which I use in this story is the result of a lot of careful research, but I admit may be totally wrong. If anyone knows better than I, please let me know!
> 
> Sindarin Elvish:
> 
> Peredhel- Half-elf
> 
> Name Translations (OCs):
> 
> Raegon- Crooked/wrong one (Gondorion Sindarin)


	3. The Princess

Chapter 3- The Princess

 

The water lapped gently over the young elf’s feet, and she laughed, her voice clear and joyful. The water here was fast flowing, yet not fierce, sparkling in the sunlight that filtered through the heavy canopy of Mirkwood, its quiet babbling a welcome sound amidst the heavy stillness the rest of the forest offered. Resting on the banks of the forest stream was a daily pilgrimage for the young elf; it was here she felt most at peace, among the trees and water that she loved, part of both, sundered from neither. Her mother, a Water Elf, had had little love for trees and her father, the Wood Elf, was likewise indifferent to water. Strange then that they had found such love for each other and brought a child into the world that would love both. Neniel Galadhwen. Daughter of both Water and the Forest.

Lost in thoughts of her mother, Neniel closed her eyes and allowed memory to overtake her, smiling as the bliss of her surroundings soothed her weary body. The sun was warm on her skin and the water tickled her foot as it dangled in the stream. A nagging thought entered the back of her mind. She had come here for a reason. She had a mission to fulfil. Now what was it?

She sat up straight, withdrawing her foot from the water and tucking it under her, frowning as she tried to remember, bringing her thoughts back to the present. Of course, she had to report to her grandfather. Her survey of the woods and waters had given her some troubling news to take back to the Palace. How careless of her to have forgotten. Her grandfather would not be pleased.

She sighed and stood up, slipping on her light shoes before passing back under the shadow of the trees, keeping her pace quick so she would be back before she was missed. Her father and grandfather had often berated her for her empty-headedness; her often thoughtless acts were unbecoming for one of her station. Yet they were not too harsh with their words; she was young yet, especially for an elf, barely halfway to the age of maturity of fifty. In human terms she was little more than a child. Or so she was told.

She certainly looked young, even for one of the Firstborn. Unlike most of her father’s kin, she was not tall, taking after the Water Elves of Rhûn, and was so slight she appeared able to be blown away by a mere breath of wind. Her skin was pale as moonlight, hair dark as the night sky and eyes as silver as the waters of the forest. Great beauty she had, yet not of a kind of her elders, for theirs was ageless and profound. She with all the freshness of youth was far livelier in her appearance and demeanour, quick to laugh at the ridiculous and sing nonsense to the stars. The last elf to be born in Middle Earth.

The forest path quickly brought her to the Halls of the Elvenking and she was escorted without ceremony through the great stone gates at the bridge and within the palace itself. The Elves around her nodded their heads to her, smiling as they did so, though a worry lay heavy on their brows. Neniel almost faltered in her step, reminded of her own woeful news. She hated to be the bearer of tidings so troubling. She did not like the solemnity of it all.

Her escort brought her to the Council Chambers, where the Royal Court was in session. The Elvenking sat at the head of the table, his son Legolas on his right, various advisors bearing frowns seated around him. As she entered all looked up and the anxious expressions of the two royals faded somewhat as they beheld her.

“ _Neniel_ , _ioniell nîn,”_ the king smiled, standing to greet her. “ _Mae athollen_. _Glass nín le achened*._ I am pleased you are home.”

“And I too, _hîr nîn,”_ Neniel said, bowing formally once, before allowing a broad smile to break upon her face. “It is but a week since I went away. Have you missed me so much, grandfather?”

Her grandfather laughed and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Every day is an age when you are away from this palace, Neniel. You keep this place alive.”

She laughed with him and then ducked behind to embrace her father, who had also risen to his feet. “Did you miss me, _adar?”_

“As always,” he said, chuckling softly, arm around her back. She moved away, looking towards the royal advisors, who witnessed this display with a slight reticence. Such public informalities, though pleasing to their hearts and minds, was not considered appropriate for such serious times. The sight dampened her joy immediately. Thranduil noticed this.

“What news do you have for us?”

She sighed. “Nothing of good to report. The forest to the south of the mountains is darkening. The trees are losing their voices and their light. Black are their thoughts and cruel their actions. The little streams and pools of the south are murky and foul. A shadow is growing there. Orcs have been treading through the waters.”

Glances were exchanged and hearts were heavy. Her father’s face darkened. “I have heard this also from the Dwarves passing along the Old Forest Road,” he said. “They fear the darkness that once plagued the Greenwood is returning.”

“Prince Legolas, you cannot mean the darkness of Dol Guldur,” one of the advisors said. “The overthrow of the Nameless One meant an end to it.”

“Evil lingers long in places it once dwelt,” the king said, glancing at his son. “The Necromancer may be gone, but foul things are still drawn there from time to time.” He looked to Neniel. “Did you approach the old fortress?”

“It lies still in ruin,” she said, shuddering at the memory of that dark place. “But I sense Orcs had been there recently. Their foulness was fresh.”

“But how could they have crossed the Anduin and entered the forest unseen?” an advisor asked.

“We must investigate this,” the king decided. “I will not have the shadow of before descend upon my kingdom. We fought too long and hard to destroy it. Legolas,” he said, turning to his son. “Take a small company of warriors to the south and discover what this new evil is. If it is Orcs, destroy them.”

“Yes, _adar._ I will leave at once.”

The advisors began to leave the room, muttering darkly, but Neniel remained, looking to her family. A growing sense of uneasiness grew within her.

“I should like to go too,” she said quickly, making the other two look up in surprise.

“You?” her grandfather asked, eyebrows raised. “You’ve never volunteered before.”

“This is different,” Neniel said. She thought for a moment. Though her father and other tutors had indeed taught her well in the skills of a warrior as a child, she had had little use for her skills thus far. This was an age of peace, so the bards said. And so she had lived, moving dreamily between her home in Mirkwood and with her mother’s people in Rhûn. That peace was being threatened now. Should she not defend it? “I wish to serve this kingdom, as any other Elf may do. To defend my home.”

Her father smiled, and moved to stand in front of her. “You are too young, Neniel,” he said fondly. “Your soul is too carefree, too full of light. Battle is not for you. Not yet. Nor would I wish it so.”

On some level, she agreed with him. She knew well that she lacked the dogged determination and steadfast conviction of her grandfather’s warriors. But her heart rebelled. Too strong was her love for her home, for the peace she enjoyed with her family. She needed to protect that.

“I am the princess, am I not?” she asked, looking up at him. “You have always taught me of duty. Is this not it?”

“It is your duty to stay, Neniel,” her grandfather said, coming to stand on her other side, hemming her in. “You are too precious to us. It is not only your youth and naivety cause you to be so cherished among us. I cannot send both my heirs on such a dangerous mission. Short scouting trips does not prepare you for this scale of peril. King Nenwë would not wish it either.”

Neniel frowned at the mention of her other grandfather, leader of the Elves of the inland Sea of Rhûn. What had he to do with this decision?

Thranduil shook his head at her expression. “You are an heir to both kingdoms, my child,” he said gently. “A vital link between the two. We cannot risk you.”

“And what if I want to be more than a link?” she asked. She met her grandfather’s eyes. “I love both the woods and the water. I serve both realms willingly. I wish to prove that to the people and to myself.”

“Then prove it by staying safe, here in Mirkwood,” Thranduil said, and thought for a moment. “Perhaps you should not journey to Rhûn for the foreseeable future. Not until the roads are safer. Faervel is an excellent escort, but he is not infallible.”

She remained silent. Ever was it thus. Once in either kingdom, neither grandfather wished to let go of her. Neither seemed to understand her wish to go between both as she desired, to walk one day under trees and another to wade through the clear waters of the Running River that fed into Rhûn. Was she always to be a bridge between the two? Was there no other way for them to always solve their petty disputes than relying on her? She looked to her father, his expression saying he agreed with the king. Was this the real reason she had been born? To bring peace between two arguing realms that should know better? Centuries they had had to end their bitter feud, but now she was the one they relied on. Well, she wanted no such burden. She would serve the kingdoms she loved in her own way. She would not be confined to the life of a diplomat.

“Please,” she said, making one last bid with her father. “Allow me to come with you.”

“I would not risk you for all of Arda, my daughter,” he said. “You were not made for war. Let your heart be free of all this. Be as merry and free-spirited as you always are, that way proving that shadows shall not overcome us.”

She fell back, disappointment filling her heart. “Young and untested I may be, but not free of suffering. The Water Elves of Rhûn suffered almost entire annihilation in the Second Age at the Deceiver’s hands. I would prevent further loss if I could. And also,” she said, eying her father, “I wonder if the reason I am denied is more to do with my mother.”  


Her father stiffened and blinked quickly, as he always did at the mention of her mother. For him, the grief had never faded. “Your mother would not wish you to suffer her fate,” he said, voice carefully steady. “She had a greater vision for you.”

“I am not she,” Neniel said, misery filling her heart. “Protecting me shall not recover her.”

She turned and left the Council Chambers, too upset to face her family for present. She did not stop walking until outside of the Palace entirely, standing on the bridge over the river where she breathed the free air.

_She had a greater vision for you_. She scoffed. A child born for nothing but uniting the realms. She did not doubt her parents had had great love for each other; that was the only way such an unorthodox match could be explained. No dialogue had existed between the two kingdoms for centuries until the two had chanced on each other while visiting Erebor. She was the result. _Sídhiel_ the people had called her at her birth: Child of Peace. Fated by her parents to assume a role she did not want. Why must her role be so formal? Could she not just enjoy both kingdoms on her own terms? She felt like Lúthien, her kinswoman of old, trapped within the Girdle of Melian while one she loved took on the darkness. Would that she had a Hound of the Maiar to guide her as she did.

She sighed in frustration and turned to face the stream in its narrow gully and the waterfall which fell just upriver from the bridge. Its loud torrent matched her wild mood this evening, the fiery orange it had turned by the setting sun was like the flame of her spirit. Seldom was she ever as riled up as this. She always was transient with her thoughts, laughing off all serious matters. Her long peace was at an end.

She stared long and hard at the waterfall, wishing the roaring waters could wash away all her frustrations. Then the sight before her began to shimmer and change, and it seemed to her that instead of the waterfall, she beheld a gleaming white tree, blossoming in a courtyard of stone. At the same moment, emotions that were not her own crashed upon her, a burning sense of anger and determination, disappointment and hurt.

She cried out in shock, but the next moment, the vision was gone, and she looked once more upon the waterfall. She breathed deeply for a few moments, disturbed by the experience. None of her family were known to be possessed of foresight. Was that what that had been? Or just one of her idle fancies?

It had appeared as the White Tree of Gondor, a realm she had never seen, though had heard much of from her father. Was it that thought of her own denied wishes that had prompted a glimpse of her father’s triumphs against evil before she was even born?

She thought deeply, the sensation new and unfamiliar to her. Her father had become part of the Fellowship despite being his father’s only heir, not even sending word to the Elvenking to ask for leave. He had decided to risk everything to defend his home. Surely that was what was right and proper for a royal to do? A strange new feeling was growing stronger within her. An urge for action, for adventure, to no longer be the princess of diplomacy. She needed to protect her home, both of them, and she couldn’t do that safe in the palace.

Mind made up, she turned from the waterfall and lightly ran back inside. She would go with her father, though in disguise, as Lúthien had done before her. Young and naive they thought her. She would show them. She sang lightly under her breath as she ran. What an exciting day it had turned out to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neniel, the Water Elves of Rhûn and their king Nenwë are entirely my own creation, not Tolkien’s.
> 
> Sindarin Elvish:
> 
> Ioniell nîn- My granddaughter (couldn’t find an actual word for granddaughter so made one up. It literally says son-daughter)
> 
> Mae athollen. Glass nín le achened- Welcome back.  I am pleased you are home.
> 
> Hîr nîn- My lord
> 
> Name Translations (OCs):
> 
> Neniel- Daughter of Water (Sindarin)
> 
> Galadhwen- Daughter of the Trees (Sindarin)
> 
> Sídhiel-Child of Peace (Sindarin)
> 
> Faervel- Strong Spirit (Sindarin)
> 
> Nenwë- Man of Water (Quenya)


	4. A Strange Enemy

Eldarion gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, heart thumping as he made ready to close the distance between himself and the band of Orcs that were racing towards his company across the plains. Three days of pursuit had come to this final moment and he knew that now was the time to prove himself.

When they had first come upon the burned-out village in the Eastfold it had appeared impossible to track the Orc-pack that had carried out the attack. While Elboron and the others of their company had investigated the ruins and paid their respects at the grave of the Rohan rider which had been dug hastily by the Scout, Eldarion had employed all of the skills in tracking taught to him by his father to try and trace their quarry. Their tracks he had found easily enough. Large and heavily-shod, these Orcs were no mere raiding party but a well-equipped fighting force. However, outside of the confines of the village, the tracks had vanished, as though the Orcs had simply sprouted wings. He had never seen anything like it and it disturbed him. Only the sight of smoke on the far distant horizon had given them any clues to their whereabouts. Four empty burned villages later and they had now finally come face to face with their enemy in the darkness of early morning. And what an enemy.

Eldarion had never seen Orcs before in person, though he had listened intently to all his father's tales of the role they had played in Middle-Earth at the end of the Third Age. He had thought he knew all that there was to know, but nothing could have prepared him for this. The company was large, at least five score Orcs bore down on them now, more than twice their own number. They were large, taller than he had ever heard of Orcs before, strong and fierce, their eyes bright and their fangs sharp. Their bodies seemed to glow under the moon with a fell light. Their appearance was terrifying, yet this was not what so unnerved him. A sickening feeling had arisen in his gut, a profound sensation of  _wrongness_ , something repulsive and abhorrent was at work. He had never heard tell of this effect of Orcs before now.

Bergil, Captain of the Citadel Guard was beside him along with all his company and had alighted from their steeds with swords drawn. He looked to the young prince. "I do not recommend this, my lord," he said, a hint of an edge to his voice. "We know too little of them. Our numbers are too few."

Eldarion did not disagree. The Scout's report of these Orcs gave him cause for hesitation, but he tried to brush past this. Fierce looking Orcs they may be, but they were Orcs all the same, and Orcs could be fought. He would not go back to his father and report they had abandoned the mission for fear of lesser numbers. The King had fought against such odds before, and so would he. Bergil had been but a child during the Battle at Pelennor; he had little more experience of Orcs than the prince. He had never liked the way the older man watched over his training, nor the way he and his family had so evidently favoured Elboron, the son of their precious Steward, who also stood near him. This was  _his_  chance to prove himself.

Bergil sighed, seeing his prince's decision in his eyes. "Do not hold back, my lord," he said. "They will give us no quarter."

Eldarion nodded, and with a deep steadying breath, he leapt forward. "For the King!"

"For the King!" his men echoed, and together as one they fell upon their enemy, their war cries mingling with the roars and bellows of the Orcs to create such a cacophony of war that his ears began to ring.

Eldarion raised his sword and brought it down upon the Orc before him, but the Orc was quick, and blocked his blow with a strength that surprised him. He dodged its responding attack and launched into a veritable onslaught, the product of many long hours careful practice with the men of the barracks. But practice with allies and straw dummies was nothing compared to the real thing. Every ounce of strength he had was sent forth into his sword arm, his body tense with anticipation as he darted around his foe seeking a weak spot, an entryway. When he finally spied one, he seized his opportunity. His blade sank deep into his opponent, passing through its chest in what should be a fatal wound, but instead passed through him so easily it might have been a knife through butter. Instead of the black blood he had heard tell of, the Orc seemed to bleed a smoky substance that wreathed around its body and spiralled into the air. Eldarion paused in pure shock, remembering the words of the rider of Rohan which the Scout had related. They had been no deluded ramblings.

The Orc seemed to grin, its black eyes sparkling in the moonlight. It leered at him, enjoying his surprise. It seemed to feel no hurt from its wound. A gurgling laughter started deep in its throat. Eldarion felt a flicker of true fear.  _What was this creature?_

He recovered himself quickly, pushing aside all doubt and focusing on his task. Taking advantage of the creature's amusement, he swung up his sword and sliced it across the Orc's throat. Its severed head fell at his feet the next moment, and shadow spilled from its body which then shrivelled up before him. He blinked as the creature vanished before his eyes. He looked up and cast around him, surveying the battle. His men were finding similar trouble to himself, and many had looks of abject terror on their faces, even the men of much experience who had encountered Orcs before. Their blows did not daunt their enemy, and shadowy smoke was filling the air, but no Orcs were falling. Death blows were causing no harm.

"The heads!" he yelled, making some soldiers glace in his direction. "Take off the heads!"

His men changed tactic, and Eldarion turned his attention back to his own part of the battle. Orc after Orc came at him, skin glowing with an unnatural white which he was now certain did not come from the moon, for it had now vanished in the early morning sky. The stench of death and decay was all around him as he fought harder than he ever had in his life. Nothing but a decapitation could fell his enemy, and their impossibly fast reflexes made such a task exceptionally difficult. His body was growing weary, yet still his enemy came, strong as ever.

"My lord!" Eldarion turned to see Bergil clutching a wound to the shoulder, frantically gesturing to the far side of the battle. "He needs help!"

Eldarion followed his gaze to see Elboron surrounded by about twenty Orcs, fighting bravely but on the verge of being overcome. His heart caught in his chest.  _No …_

A new surge of energy flowed through him as he launched himself through the rabble in his bid to lend aid to his friend. Elboron was weary, yet still fought on, decapitating the Orcs before him. But the other Orcs made no move to kill Elboron, they did not raise their weapons but closed in on him on all sides. Eldarion's eyes widened.  _They were trying to take him prisoner._  He had no time to wonder why before he had arrived at Elboron's side, his sword swinging furiously before him, bringing down two Orcs immediately.

If he had hoped his appearance might make them draw back, he was to be disappointed for his arrival, if anything, had the opposite effect. They hollered in pleasure, laughing as they fought off his attacks, stepping ever closer with fearless drive. They began to close ranks on him too, and Eldarion saw for the first time the foolishness of his heedless action. They had lured him into their trap, and now sought to take both young men captive.

Elboron had realised this too, and they fought back to back, holding off their enemies as best they could, but knowing they stood no chance.  _Valar help us,_ Eldarion thought as the circle of Orcs around them continued to advance. Perhaps his father had been right after all. The son of the great Elessar would be overcome by his own recklessness.

A rousing cry met his ears, and Eldarion saw through the ring of foes that Bergil had rallied some of the company to their assistance, but still they were too few. The Orcs had the advantage.

Eldarion felt a warmth on the back of his neck and an orange light blazed across the sky. His spirits were lifted by the sight of the sun, her rays welcome in the darkness of the fight. His heart was boldened by the sight, but it soon proved to be the least of its benefits. As the light from the sun fell upon the Orcs, they seemed to pass away like a wisp of smoke, vanishing utterly, leaving only dark marks on the earth from where the few they had brought down had fallen. Eldarion and the others jumped in shock, heads twisting around to see where they had gone, not trusting the sight of their own eyes. Eldarion felt an icy chill down his spine. How could they have disappeared like that? He could not believe it.

He looked to Bergil, who shared his expression of wonder. "Have you ever heard of anything like this, Bergil?"

The Captain of the Citadel Guard shook his head, his face paler than it was accustomed to being. "Orcs have long hated the rays of the sun, but never have I seen or heard of them vanishing before it like phantoms into the night," he said. He examined the dark marks of the earth, expression troubled. "These were no mortal creatures, my lord. Something evil is at work here."

Eldarion looked to Elboron, one of the most learned people he knew, desperate for something to tell him more of what had happened. "Any explanations?" he asked. "Anything in your old scrolls that would explain this?"

Elboron shook his head, as astonished as the rest of them. "The Scout's report was more accurate than I could have believed. They seemed made of shadow itself, yet glowed with some foul inner light. These were no goblins from the Misty Mountains."

"Uruk-hai?" Eldarion asked, pleading with his friend to lend some sort of firm grounding in reality to the conversation.

Unfortunately, Elboron shook his head. "No Orc has been seen like that in any record kept in Gondor," he said gravely.

Eldarion's heart sank. He turned full circle, surveying his men, seeing that many had fallen, too many, and those that remained seemed frightened as children. He steadied himself. This was  _his_ mission, and he had failed miserably. He should not have been so eager to engage the Orcs, he should have paid more attention to the Scout's warning and Bergil's counsel. He could not continue like this.

"Get the wounded onto horses," he said to Bergil. "We ride back to Minas Tirith. My father must be told of this."

Neniel had never seen her father angry. He had never once raised his voice to her, preferring to sing of deeds long past and recite the names of all the stars of heaven to her in the comfort of the palace. Yet now his face was white with fury. He had seen her across the battlefield. They were divided from each other, and in part she was grateful, for she grieved to see him so disappointed in her.

It had been remarkably easy to slip after her father's raiding party, donning the dark green and brown garb of the woodland warriors and slinging her bow across her back, avoiding the eyes of those around her as she skulked at the rear, far from her father's position at the head of the procession. They had come across a party of Orcs not long afterwards, just after dawn, lurking in the shadows of the trees, dangerously close to the palace, and from then on she cared little if she was seen. This was her chance.

Her bow sang as she loosed arrow after arrow at the enemy, but something was dreadfully wrong. These Orcs were unlike any she had heard of. No amount of arrows to the chest could stop them, no wound would slow them down. Black smoke came from their wounds instead of blood, and the only way to kill them was to cut off their heads.

Here the Woodland Elves were at a disadvantage, for most were archers, and few bore swords, or indeed any blade much longer than a knife. Their armour was thick, and getting close enough to decapitate them proved difficult.

Neniel's heart despaired as she saw the Elves around her being cut down, people she had known her whole life, who bowed to her, and laughed with her in the beauty of her grandfather's halls. There was blood all around, and a taste of death upon the air. Panic was rising within her. She was hopelessly out of her depth.  _Why had she come?_

Orcs should not glow with a ghostly light, they should not be as tall as Elves, nor as quick and strong, yet these were. How was this possible?

Her white hunting knife slashed through the air, but made little purchase. Training with her father had not prepared her for this, her first battle. Why had no one told her of the blood, the screams, the horror? None of the songs spoke of that.

She was surrounded by Orcs. They were closing in on her, reaching out with strong hands to grab onto her. No matter how many she sliced off, they kept on coming. She heard her father screaming her name and she looked up. He was running towards her, blood trickling down one side of his face, terror in his eyes. She had never seen her father afraid before.

She seemed to be in a world removed from the battle. Nothing appeared real anymore. Not the screams around her, not the smell of death. And not the Orc arrow that had embedded itself in her father's chest. She froze, watching as he fell, unable to believe it. It was impossible. Her father was the greatest Elven warrior since Beleg Cúthalion. This could not be happening.

A white fury ignited itself then, and the world before her seemed tinged in red. She screamed her grief, her pain, her fear, her anger and flew towards her father, cutting down Orcs as she went. She did not notice the Elves around her falling to these strange new Orcs. She did not notice how they targeted her specifically, trying to grab her rather than kill her. She did not notice the Elves that closed in around her to protect her, bound by love and respect for this fearless young maiden. All she thought about was reaching her father. To see if he was alive or dead. But she could not draw near.

The largest of the Orcs bellowed orders to his followers, and their onslaught increased. The Elves bowed under the pressure, their blades wrenched from their hands, their shields shattered. Large, strong arms that glowed unnaturally and were as cold as ice closed around her, and she was pulled into crushing darkness. She could not see, hear, or even breathe. She might have been under the earth itself with all the weight of the world on top of her.

The sensation ceased and she was able to draw breath again. She opened the eyes she had squeezed shut and with wonder saw that she was no longer under the trees of Mirkwood, but in a shadowy cave, a view of white mountains before her under a weak sun. She cried aloud in shock, and turned around, seeing a good number of her father's company were with her, all deprived of their weapons and all staring around them in disbelief.

From the darkest of the shadows, the lead Orc came towards her, leering at her with eyes that were as black as night. Like a corpse he appeared, with flesh that stank of decay. Shadows were pouring from a wound on his arm, but it seemed not to bother him. Fear leapt into her heart, but she pushed it aside. She was a princess of Mirkwood, Lady of Rhûn. She would feel no fear. The Orc stood above her, seeking to intimidate her. She thrust her chin in the air, and smiled, daring to do what she had never thought she'd have the courage to do, especially now when all she could think of was her father. She laughed as loudly as she could.

"You do not frighten me."

The Orc was not unnerved by her demonstration. Instead, he laughed as well. Quicker than she could react, his fist swung up and caught her across the face.

"My lady!" cried the Elf behind her, catching her as she reeled from the force of the blow. She blinked away the pain and stared back at the Orc.

"You should be, She-Elf," the Orc snarled back at her. "Where we're going, there shall be no laughter for you."

She gasped aloud, and heard similar gasps behind her. The Orc had not spoken in the harsh tongues of his race, nor a corrupted form of Westron, but in perfect Sindarin of a dialect so old Neniel herself could barely comprehend it. No Orc could speak the words of Elven tongues. No Orc would wish to.

The Orc laughed again. He withdrew a long, thin dart from a pouch at his hip, and his lips curled over his fangs. "This should keep you quiet for a while, She-Elf. We have a journey ahead of us."

Before she could move out of the way, he had plunged the dart into her abdomen, making her scream aloud in agony as fire tore its way through her body. She felt some foul darkness spreading its way into her blood, into her bones.

 _Poison,_  she thought, her mind growing murky and her vision hazy. The world before her went black.

Eldarion was riding as fast as he could on his horse, making all haste back to Minas Tirith. He could afford to waste no time; the sun had now fully risen and for all he knew the Orcs would return at nightfall, bringing down more destruction on the land. Elboron rode on one side and Bergil on the other. Their faces were as grim as he believed his own was.

He stared straight ahead, seeing the wilds of Anórien stretching before him. He was tired from the fight, and knew his men were too. If only they could go faster …

A new feeling came over him then, unconnected to his weariness. A sudden wave of grief and terror. The sound of clear, ringing laughter that was fair and bright. Then pain. Unbearable, gut-wrenching pain.

He cried out loud and bent over double, eyes watering as a fiery agony swept through his abdomen. His vision began to darken and he felt himself fall from the saddle and collide with the ground, new pain shooting through his back and shoulder. He could barely move, he could barely think.

He was vaguely aware of Elboron and Bergil calling his name before he fell into darkness.


	5. Kingsfoil

 

 

 

Elboron had leapt from his horse as soon as he approached the seventh level of the city, knowing that even in an emergency such as this protocols must be observed and he would be severely reprimanded for trying to ride into the Citadel itself where horses were not permitted. Though he thought the King might make an exception when he heard his news.

He charged through the gates, barely acknowledging the guard who stood by to let him pass unchallenged when they saw his haste, trusting him and his judgement. Tearing across the courtyard he burst into the Citadel itself to find the King within, speaking with a number of his counsellors. He looked up at his abrupt entrance, a frown on his brow at the interruption which then faded as he beheld Elboron's appearance, red in the face from running, not yet divested of his sword and mail.

"Elboron? What has happened?" he cried. His face went pale as he saw Elboron's expression and his entire body tensed. "My son … he …"

"He's been taken to the Houses of Healing, my lord," Elboron gasped, a painful stitch in his side. "You must come at once."

King Elessar went even paler, his eyes flashed with sudden emotion. Within a moment he had dropped the scrolls he had been carrying and with no further glance to his counsellors had leapt into action, hastening through the door Elboron had just entered. The young captain followed him, amazed at the speed the king was now making, despite being more than five times his own age. A memory came back to him then of the stories of the Dark Years.  _Wingfoot_. That had been what his uncle had named him when encountering him on the plains of the Riddermark after running three days and nights from Amon Hen in pursuit of the Halflings. He was certainly not yet out of practice.

Trailing behind his king, Elboron entered the Houses of Healing to see that Elessar was now speaking with Bergil, whose face was grave and sorrowful as he related what had happened in the skirmish.

"We will speak of this later," Elessar interrupted, eyes flicking over Bergil's shoulder. "Take me to my son."

Bergil nodded and led the way, taking no offence at the king's abrupt manner. Elboron went with them to one of the rooms of the sick, where several healers had already congregated, speaking in worried, fretful voices. Eldarion lay in the centre on a low set bed. His armour had been removed but otherwise he looked exactly as Elboron had left him: pale as death, eyes closed, skin clammy to the touch, insensible to all around him. If it were not for the slow rise and fall of his chest he would appear to be dead. Elboron felt his breath catch in his throat as fear threatened to overwhelm him. Fear for his friend, fear that he could not explain what had happened. Fear for himself as he remembered that he too had not been immune ...

Elessar ungraciously pushed past the healers and crouched down beside his son, reaching for his hand and enclosing it within both of his. His grey eyes moved over the length of his son's body, searching for injury and other signs as to what ailed him. He placed one hand on his son's brow and murmured something to himself. His face creased in worry. He turned back to Bergil.

"Where is his wound?"

"There is none, my lord," Bergil said, shaking his head.

"Then what is the cause of this?"

Bergil wrung his hands and spoke in an anxious tone. "I know not, lord. The battle was behind us, and Lord Eldarion had escaped unscathed. Yet as we rode he suddenly cried out in pain and fell from his horse. The fall bruised him somewhat, but it was not serious. He had fallen into this malady beforehand. He has lain as still as death ever since. Nothing can rouse him." Bergil paused and glanced to Elboron. "It reminds me somewhat of what befell Lord Faramir, Lady Éowyn and the Halfling after Pelennor. The same evil influence."

A stillness fell on the room and faces darkened. Elboron jerked his head back to Eldarion, a coldness around his heart. Could this be a result of the Black Breath? Surely such a thing could not be possible. A shudder ran through him as he looked on his friend's wan face and imagined his mother and father lying thus in this very building long ago. They had barely managed to cling to life. A trembling came upon him looking down upon the prince. Whatever had happened to him, he had felt it too. Was this his fate?

Elessar too glanced to Elboron, and to his immense relief, he shook his head. "It cannot be. Similar, yet unlike, for they were more deathlike still. This is something different, though what I cannot say."

He turned back to examine the patient, running his hands along his flesh, peering into his eyes, gently opening his mouth. Elboron watched impatiently; everyone in Gondor knew of the king's legendary healing skills, he owed his own existence to them after all. Why was he not doing something more?

"Do you remember the remedy I prescribed back then, Bergil?" he asked, completing his survey. "You were only a lad of ten, but as trusty as you are now. Run now and find the herb as you did then. Perhaps it shall help in this case as well."

Bergil nodded. "Athelas. I'll fetch some now, lord."

The wait until he returned seemed interminable, but Elessar made up for it with his own practiced speed as he breathed upon and then crushed the athelas leaves, releasing its wholesome aroma into the air. Elboron felt his own spirit be soothed as he breathed it in. Throwing the leaves into boiling water increased the effect and vapours soon filled the small room, refreshing and revitalising. A freshness upon the air seemed to tingle and resonate in the hearts of all who stood there. Elboron felt his own weariness and hurt fade away.

Elessar took the hand of his son once more, stroking it and murmuring softly to him. "Eldarion, my son, awaken! Let no shadow lie upon you. Awaken now, for I have called you."

For a seeming eternity, nothing changed, and despite the herb's influence, Elboron felt his heart clench painfully. But Elessar did not lose faith, and continued calling to his son, one hand in his and the other on his brow, his face changing as it appeared a great struggle was occurring, his expression growing grey with weariness.

As shadow began to fall outside the high windows, Eldarion began to move. Slowly, his eyes opened and he blinked, his gaze unfocused and confused. He turned his head and saw his father leaning over him.

" _Adar?_ "

Elessar smiled, and a light came into his face. "Hush, and rest now,  _ioneg._ You are safely at home."

"But how? I don't understand, what happened?"

Elessar turned to the other two men, expression grave once more. "If he sustained no wound, how came he to fall under this influence?" he asked. "Why only he? What befell him in that battle?"

"Nothing that I saw, lord," Bergil said. "Although," he cast a glance towards Elboron. "Our two leaders were most heavily in amongst the fray. Both became separated from us, surrounded by enemies. It seemed to me that they specifically were being herded away from the rest of us as if to try and capture them."

"Orcs seldom take prisoners," Elessar said, "and those that are taken do not live long. Why they would seek such high profile prisoners is unknown to me. They do not ask for ransoms, nor do they make use of slaves, not since the fall of the Great Darkness. Torment is their goal only, and any man there would have been suitable for that." He paused a moment. "The Scout was correct in saying these Orcs are of a different mould than we know."

"Indeed, my lord. They resembled nothing of the Orcs I knew in my youth," Bergil said, shuddering at the memory.

"My lord," Elboron burst out, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Prince Eldarion was not the only one affected by this. When he fell, I too felt something. A fiery pain in my side that caused me to lose my senses for the briefest of moments. I sensed a great shadow before me and thought I would fall to it. Then I became aware of Eldarion, and it passed."

Eldarion, still blinking groggily, was now staring at him, an expression of shock upon his face. His father immediately stood from his position by his side and swiftly crossed the room to stand before Elboron, laying his hands on his shoulders and searching his face with steely grey eyes. He placed a hand on his brow and then sighed, cupping his face with his hand.

"You are weary, Elboron," he said, his face creased in concern. "You must have ridden in great haste with much heavy sorrow to bring this news and my son back to me. I am grateful. You too are in need of rest and renewal." His smile seemed somewhat forced. "I can only guess that your close proximity to the Orcs was what afflicted you both. I trust now that away from their influence you might both recover. Stay with Eldarion now while I inform the Queen of what has happened. Then you must go and rest in a room of your own in this House. I would have you both be restored fully ere you leave."

Eldarion grimaced. "Must  _naneth_  be told of this?"

Elessar smiled. "I promise to try and alleviate the most of her worry lest she fall upon you as strongly as a Dwarven hammer falls on an anvil.

When the king and Captain of the Citadel Guard had left the room, Elboron immediately moved to sit by his friend's bed.

"I am pleased you are awake, you gave me quite the scare."

Eldarion smiled feebly. "Why Elboron, I did not know you cared so."

"I am your future Steward, it is my duty to care."

"Oh, is that what it is? Duty? I would have thought the opposite. If I die, you'll probably start a new line of Ruling Stewards."

They both laughed, but both knew they were trying to drown out the dark fear that had awoken within them. Elboron addressed it now.

"What do you remember?" he asked him. "That pain …"

Eldarion's eyes went out of focus for a moment. "It was agony. All through my body, my very soul. I felt grief, and terror and hatred all at once. I thought I heard a laugh, a woman's laugh, and then nothing but pain."

"In your abdomen," Elboron asked, gesturing to where his own pain had come from. His friend nodded.

"You felt it too?"

"Yes, though I cannot explain it. Why should we feel pain from wounds neither of us received? And so long after the battle?" He leaned in closer. "I too felt those emotions, Eldarion, emotions that were not my own. I heard no laugh, but I thought I saw something. A face of an Orc, not one of the ones we had fought, almost lost in the shadows of a cave. I do not think this was a result of simply being in close quarters to those enemies."

"Neither do I," Eldarion agreed, sitting up a little straighter. He bit his lip, troubled, and hesitated before speaking again. "It is not the first time this has happened. Before we set out, I thought I saw a vision of a waterfall, one I had never seen before, and again experienced feelings that I knew to be someone else's. I simply chose to dismiss it as a phantom of the mind. But now …"

Elboron breathed out. "What is happening?" he asked, wonder in his voice. "Why did you see such a thing? Why were you more affected than I was?"

"I do not know, but something somewhere is deeply wrong," Eldarion said, his breath quickening. "Something dark is afoot here."

"We should inform your father-"

"No!" Eldarion said, shaking his head rapidly. He sighed at Elboron's shocked expression. "At least, not yet. We should wait until we know more."

"Eldarion-"

"Please," his friend pleaded, reaching for his arm. "For now. I need to figure this out. I do not want my father to think even less of my abilities than he does at present. Hearing that his son is seeing things would not bode well for me."

"I too am part of this," Elboron said, "you would not be considered crazy. The gift of foresight is in your family, remember? And your father's opinion of you could not be higher. It certainly would not be changed, not least by something like this."

Eldarion looked away from him then, and Elboron knew he would not be swayed. His heart, buoyed by the prince's recovery now sank once again. Throughout Elboron's youth, fostered as he was in this great city, he and Eldarion had been ever inseparable. A friendship stronger than the stone of the city itself. Yet occasionally there were prices to be paid for that unbreakable bond of loyalty between them. It seemed Elboron had paid most of them, bound by silence in matters ranging from the particulars of the mischief they had gotten themselves into, the secret ventures in the dead of night into the palace kitchens and pranks on the servants, to Eldarion's illicit visits by moonlight to the maidens of the court. Now it seemed that bond of loyalty was being claimed once again, and he would have to keep another of his future king's secrets.

He only hoped it would not prove ill for either of them.

When Queen Arwen Undómiel came flying into the room a short while later, Elboron took his leave, watching fondly as mother and son shared a tender moment. Outside of the prince's room he leaned heavily against the wall, a deep misgiving in his heart. Was he right to keep this secret? Had his prince been right to ask it of him? He had never easily been able to say no to him.

He looked up as he heard his name being called softly. Bergil stood before him, looking him up and down.

"I am sorry I did not notice your own hurts, my lord. But you have such a quiet nature about you. You should have spoken."

"It matters not," Elboron said, trying to smile. "The prince was more grievously afflicted; you were right to look to him first."

"Right perhaps, though it has to be admitted, a great part of me would rather have tended to you, though perhaps that is a mere partiality of my family towards yours," he said. He glanced around before speaking again. "It is because of that I now speak. I offer you some friendly advice, for the sake of the particular loyalty my father has for yours. You are well versed in lore and in strategy and for that you fill your position well. But the prince, though your superior in both age and rank, is not so. Brave though he is, he is not yet a skilled warrior and I fear for him. He is too quick to make decisions and does not listen well to advice, none save yours at least. That fight could have cost us dearly had our enemy not vanished the way it did. He needs your guidance more than ever, Elboron. You temper his recklessness, direct his thoughts and remain steadfast in your loyalty. The arrogance of youth could be his downfall. If you could bring yourself to speak more in matters of counsel with him, he may listen and become as wise as his father."

Elboron stared at him for a moment, astonished by his speech. Coming from anyone else, words like this could be considered treason. But Elboron knew him well. His father Beregond was Captain of the White Company, his father's own personal guard in Ithilien, the man who had saved him from the madness of Denethor. He had great love for the family of the Steward, and for Gondor and its king. His words were come from concern, and not from hostility. Yet there was a sting there too.  _You have such a quiet nature about you … could bring yourself to speak more …_ he was not the first to notice it. Too quiet he had always been, never able to say a word against anyone.

He glanced at the door to Eldarion's room. Again, he prayed his decision to keep their secret would not go amiss. He had never dealt well with confrontation.

* * *

Pain was in every part of her. Fiery, unbearable pain in her skin, her bones, her flesh. She drifted in shadow, a black endless dream from which she was unable to lift herself. The world around her was black. Her very soul seemed dark with the foul poison which now infected it. How long had she been like this? It could have been a day. It could have been a century. She would not know the difference.

Swirling shadows were on every side of her, pushing against her like water against the prow of a boat. They whispered to her, cruel things, echoes of hate and foulness. They spoke of her father and her home. Both were gone from her now, never to return. Her father was fallen. All was lost.

From the blackness, a vision appeared to her, separate from the rest, light pushing its way through to reach her. She was in blackness, but also she rode on the back of a horse across wide plains in a country she did not know. Her head looked down where she saw another rider, a slumped figure set before the rider, limp and pale. Unconscious, being borne away for treatment somewhere she supposed. He looked young, a warrior in shining armour. Dark hair streamed behind him revealing a noble face, now slack in his sleep. She could almost feel his presence here with her now. A bright light in the darkness, full of youth and vitality, strong and hopeful.

The vision faded, and once more she was left alone to the pain. She floundered in the dark mists of her mind, seeking for some handhold with which she could drag herself back into wakefulness.

But no relief came. Nothing changed. Except that … a smell came to her, refreshing and wondrous.

_Athelas …_

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for everyone who is reading this story. I've been watching the number of hits slowly increasing which makes me incredibly happy! If you enjoyed please leave a comment to let me know how I'm doing :)**

**Sindarin Elvish:**

**Adar- Father**

**Naneth- Mother**

**Ioneg- My son (term of endearment)**


	6. Ill News

_The mountain before him was pale in the early dawn, tall and white-capped it brushed the very heavens. Light slowly filled the sky and turned the peak into a fiery beacon against the starkness of the sky behind it. A town lay at its foot, large and prosperous, though the streets were empty in that early hour. He was watching the sight before him through a window of glass, looking down over the town from a high place. Fear ran through him as he saw smoke rising from the distant fields. He could almost see the black figures of the orcs before the flames. As the sun rose fully however, they seemed to disappear entirely._

_He was enveloped by a warm sense of relief; they had not reached the city that night. But then there was always the next night. He stared back at the mountain again, praying for salvation to come. They were so exposed out here beneath the base of this solitary peak along the horizon. A new terror gripped his heart. He knew they would return._

Elboron woke to find he was once again drenched in sweat and his blankets in a tangle around him. He took a deep shuddering breath and sat up, swinging his legs out of his camp bed and clutching its sides, knuckles white. The terror was still with him. But  _whose_  terror was it?

Every night for nigh on three weeks he had been plagued by dreams of a town he did not know, feeling things he did not understand, sometimes even while waking. Always he seemed to look down on the town from above, mostly just watching people scurrying around after dark up to some sort of nefarious or otherwise unsavoury business, but more recently also watching the slow advance of burning fires along the horizon. Someone was afraid, deeply afraid.

While still breathing deeply to recover from the intensity of the emotions of the dream, he was aware of the flap of his tent being drawn open. His father stood there, apparently awaiting invitation to enter. He however did not wait for one. He ducked inside the entrance and came to him immediately, concern in his face.

"Elboron?" he asked, sitting beside him on the bed. "Are you well? You seem pale."

"Nightmare," he said shortly, trying to smile. "It shall pass."

His father did not look convinced, and peered closely at him. Elboron prayed he would not notice the shadows under his eyes, the weariness, the stress. But his father was a shrewd man and missed little.

"I am concerned for you, my son," he said softly. "You have not been yourself. Reserved you have always been around others, but not with me. Tell me what troubles you."

Elboron tried not to flinch, pained at his father's expression. He knew he could not say. He and Eldarion had sworn to keep this to themselves until they knew more of what was happening. Reluctant though he had been at first, Elboron was now more compliant. To tell his father that he thought he may be losing his mind would almost be worse than experiencing it. What could be done for them? Until they knew that, there was no need to worry their families. Though, as it appeared, they were doing that anyway.

His father frowned at his silence, his face almost more than Elboron could bear. He had never kept something like this from his father before. He had never been able to, for his father could draw out secrets from the hearts of men they may not even know they had. He need only look at a man in order to learn his mind.

"Has anything happened?" he asked him. "Anything like to that day you and Eldarion first fought against these new Orcs?" Elboron willed himself not to react, but his father saw his jaw clench and pressed on. "Aragorn warned me to watch over you in case it occurred again. Has it?"

Elboron forced himself to meet his father's eyes, schooling his expression into one of calmness. "No, father," he said as brightly as he could. "I am well."

His father did not believe him, but Elboron did not wait to be interrogated further. He stood and quickly dressed himself for the day, ignoring his father's knowing gaze. He strapped on his sword and made to leave the tent. As he walked, he hissed in pain as he placed weight on his left ankle, and had to make do with a hobble.

"Did you sprain your ankle yesterday?" his father asked, rising to lend an arm. Elboron brushed it away.

"No, I … I must have slept on it."

"Elboron-"

"Come, it's getting late."

He limped out of the tent and found himself in the brightness of the early morning. The camp was already being struck, eighty of his father's best warriors making all haste to be off on their journey to Minas Tirth. They were now only a few short hours away. He watched their faces as they passed, noting how haggard they now appeared. Three weeks had passed since that first encounter, and the attacks had not ceased. Gondor and Rohan both were subject to assault by this strange new enemy that seemed to appear with the first shadows of night, cause unparalleled death and destruction and then fade away with the sun. the attacks were ceaseless and unpredictable, the same pack appearing often hundreds of miles apart within the space of a day. They did not move like mortal creatures. Terror followed their every move. There seemed to be no way to fight against them.

Elboron had been given leave by King Elessar to return to Ithilien to help deal with the threats on his father's land and was only now returning with a host of his father to the great council Elessar had called. All allies of Gondor within a few days travel were to be there. Elboron was not sure what they would achieve. They had come no closer to learning more of whence these Orcs came, or what was their purpose.

As the camp began to clear he saw his mother, dressed in riding garb supervising with a cold expression on her face. She had surprised him in recent weeks. All through his youth he had heard of her deeds in the wars, her courage and fortitude. The White Lady of Ithilien was famous for her valour. Yet this had never fit with his image of her; a healer, gentle and warm, happy and smiling. Now for the first time he saw her, the shieldmaiden of Rohan, daughter of the House of Eorl, slayer of the Witch-King. War had brought out that side of her which she had sworn was behind her. The sight grieved him, as he knew it did his father too. Neither of them had ever wished to be warriors again.

He made ready for his departure, ignoring the stabbing pains in his ankle as he packed his things. When the company was ready he swung himself into his saddle with difficulty. As he did so he saw his father approach his mother and whisper something gently to her. Her face grew even graver and he was sure he saw her eyes flicker towards him. He looked away pointedly.

The ride to Minas Tirith was uneventful, and soon they beheld the great gates of the city. Wrought of silver and mithril by the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves, they replaced the ones destroyed by Sauron's army in the war, stronger and fairer, made yet more so for they were a gift for Elessar from Gimli, Gloin's son who now led those people. The Dwarves too had encountered this new evil in their still newly-established settlements at Helm's Deep, but were not as troubled by it as their Man neighbours. Intriguing, some called it. Suspicious, others said.

The Company swept into the city, and before long, he, his father, mother, and their chief advisors including Beregond, father of Bergil had arrived at the Citadel. The place was filled with many visitors, lords of Gondor and Rohan alike. All shared grave expressions.

"Elboron!"

He turned to see Eldarion approaching, and he was glad at the reunion after so long away, but froze as he saw that the prince was limping. Eldarion too had noticed Elboron's own limp and his eyes widened.

"I sprained it last night during an encounter by Osgiliath," he said by way of explanation. He stared at Elboron, all friendliness gone from his face. "How long have-"

"This morning," he answered, his stomach twisting, "though I had no obvious injury."

They shared a look of uneasiness, both men not willing to believe it.

"Strange that!" one of his father's advisors observed. "I've heard of this before. Men who fight closely together often get phantoms pains when the other is injured. Even when they are far away from each other! Incredible."

"Yes, incredible," his father said watching the two of them closely, obviously sceptical.

Elboron hooked his arm around Eldarion's elbow and pulled him away where they could not be overheard. "This is no coincidence."

"I agree," Eldarion said, "this seems to be linked to our previous … incident."

"There's more," Elboron said, gut twisting, "I've been dreaming again."

"Of the mountain?"

"Yes, almost every night. I do not recognise that place, yet I  _know_  it. I have been there in thought if not in body. I'm seeing it through another's eyes."

Eldarion looked troubled. "And I have dreamed too," he said heavily. "Not of a mountain, but a dark room, a prison I believe. The vision is faint however and broken, as though the person in that prison were drifting in and out of consciousness."

Elboron's heart sank even further. These visions and feelings were not getting any better as they had hoped, neither were they becoming any clearer. Their decision to keep this to themselves seemed ever more foolish.

His father had not taken his eyes from the two young men. He looked between them, frowning as though trying to work out a difficult calculation. He knew something was wrong. But how on earth could they ever explain something like this?

* * *

The Council was larger than anything Eldarion had ever witnessed in his father's halls. Allies from across Middle-Earth had come to discuss the growing problem of the orc attackers, and many had brought large retinues with them. The glowing white marble floors were almost entirely obscured by the mass of people that were there before they gradually began to take their seats in a large oval in the centre of the room. At the top end of the room his father and mother sat, just beneath their thrones on the dais, not wanting to display any superiority over their allies, he sat in his father's left, next to Faramir, the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. Lady Éowyn and Elboron were on his other side. All the Lords of Gondor had come, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, as well as the lords of Lossarnach and of Anórien and many others besides. King Éomer and his wife Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil sat near their kin along with many of the prominence of Rohan, the Lords of the Westfold and the Eastfold among them. Dunlending men were also there, a result of their people's recent truces with their neighbours, though tensions were still high as memories faded.

Beside his mother sat his uncles, Elladan and Elrohir, both so alike with their raven hair and shining eyes even he had trouble telling them apart. They were the last of their kin to remain in Middle-Earth, and would soon pass over the sea to Valinor to join his grandparents. They lingered only to be near their sister and her husband, their foster-brother of old, while their reign was still at its height. Only the elves of the north stayed behind; the Silvan elves and their leaders, those who had long resisted the call of the Valar.

A few of other races were also present; a contingent of Dwarves from the Glittering Caves and also some Periannath from the north, particular close friends of his father who had been on a visit to the south when the violence had erupted. Elanor Gardner, daughter of Samwise Gamgee sat by Queen Arwen in a small chair heaped with cushions in her usual spot as lady-in-waiting. Her golden hair, still rare among Hobbits, gleamed in the light filtering in through high windows. Her father was beside her, Mayor of the Shire and along with the Thain of the Shire and the Master of Buckland, Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck respectively who were among the chiefest of his father's counsellors in the north kingdom of Arnor. The three had come to relate tidings from the north and also to visit Sam's daughter, and had been given seats near the king's at his father's particular request. Merry bore the horn given to him by Éomer and wore the mail given to him by the people of Rohan, and likewise, Pippin was liveried as a guard of the Citadel, called upon by the king to resume said post in the light of the crisis. The Hobbits were no unfamiliar sight to the people of Minas Tirith, for they were frequent visitors and held in high esteem. To Eldarion as well they had become well-acquainted and cherished friends to him, as they were to his father, though he usually only saw them on their visits here. Men from Rohan and further afield were less used to this sight, and more than a few cast their eyes often in the direction of the smaller chairs positioned so close to the king.

Eldarion looked around and let out a long breath. Men, Dwarves, Elves and even Hobbits gathered together in one room to face a threat of darkness. Such a thing had not occurred since his grandfather Lord Elrond had held his own council in Imladris with the Ringbearer. He shifted in his uncomfortable seat, meeting Elboron's eyes across the room as he did so. He looked as worried as he felt.

When all had claimed their seats, his father began to speak, immediately commanding a respectful silence with his captivating voice. He spoke of the attacks upon Gondor, listing the villages that had been burnt, the people massacred or displaced, his army's inability to keep up with this roving threat. He talked of the Orcs, how they were of new stock and a threat unlike any other they had encountered. The other lords of Gondor also reported the destruction upon their own lands, the senseless, ceaseless assault on the weak and unprotected. King Éomer spoke then, as did his own lords, detailing much the same events. Only the Dwarves had little to report. Aside from a few casualties in their shared dwellings with the Men of Rohan, they had suffered little, but were nonetheless eager to help. All who spoke had grey faces and wearied voices. The room seemed suddenly full of shadow. Then Prince Faramir spoke of the attacks on Ithilien, his voice heavy and his eyes downcast.

"Alas, this is not all I have to report," he said, crossing a hand over his face. "I regret to have to announce that my guard has discovered the place from which these Orcs seem to be issuing their attacks. Minas Morgul has been retaken."

A horrified murmur of voices greeted this statement, and Eldarion went cold. _Minas Morgul_. The very name was enough to strike terror in the hearts of the bravest of men.

"How has this happened?" one of the lords demanded to know, frowning at Faramir. "Your men were supposed to keep watch over the place, prevent any evil from reclaiming it. That was your charge was it not? I seem to remember you being ordered to demolish the place."

"That is easier said than done," Lady Éowyn said, leaping to her husband's defence and glaring at the man. "The evil in that valley is as strong as it was when it was the lair of the Nazgûl. Unless you have faced them in person, as I have, you can have no concept of what that does to a person." She stopped, eyes lost in painful memory for a moment before she continued. "No one could remain there for long without succumbing to its power. We could not ask our men to long expose themselves to such ill-effects. Deconstruction took place, but only in spaced apart shifts, and progress slow, but even that was enough to require the men to convalesce for longer than the time they spent there. Watch towers were built at the entrance to the valley, but we've recently discovered that they had been overrun, the men slaughtered before a message could be sent."

"But still, more should have been done to-"

The lord was interrupted by a small cough. Sam Gamgee had risen to his feet, which was still not enough to bring him level with the seated lord. His expression however was determined.

"Have you ever been in the Morgul Vale, my lord?" Sam asked him, hands on hips. "Well, I have, and it weren't no picnic neither, if you take my meaning. It seems the very stones themselves are full of foul, rotten death and decay. The air is as unwholesome as you can imagine and there's nowt there but darkness and shadow. Not a plant, nor bird, nor even a crawling insect. Now I don't blame Captain Faramir here for not wanting to put his men through that, and I don't think you should neither. It would be torture, so it would, and it seems to me that it don't matter so much as how the enemy got in as we figure out now what to do about it."

Speech finished, Sam flushed somewhat and sat back down on his chair, avoiding the stares of wonder he was receiving. Faramir shot him a small smile which softened his lined face, and his fellow Hobbits too nodded approvingly.

"Well spoken, Sam," the king said, also smiling at his old friend. "I could not have found the words better myself." The smile faded as he looked around the assembled lords and ladies. "This news is grievous indeed, but a blessing might be seen to come from it. Now we know where the enemy lies we may find a way in which to fight it."

"But are we sure these attacks come from the Morgul Vale," Éomer said. "If so, we should expect the attacks to be focused only around Ithilien, but they are spread out much further than that. Surely had the Orcs been travelling back and forth they would have been spotted? As it is they appear like ghosts in the night and slip away again as quickly."

"These Orcs seem only to live in shadows," Bergil said heavily. He had been out fighting these orcs incessantly with Eldarion. "Sunlight does not pain them as it usually does, but makes them vanish utterly."

"And what's this I hear about a glow?" Pippin asked, head tilted to one side. "And the fact they bleed shadows? Even the Uruk-Hai didn't do anything like that."

"These Orcs are as unlike to the Uruk-Hai as they themselves were to the maggots of the Misty Mountains," Prince Imrahil said. "They are no mindless rabble of destroyers. They are as tall as Elves and as strong too, possessed of far greater intelligence and discernment. The most formidable breed I have ever encountered."

Silence fell upon those gathered there as each tried to comprehend this. Eldarion thought back to the encounters with the Orcs he had had almost every night now for three weeks. The blackness of their eyes, the cold light that shone through their skin, the very stench of decay from their bodies. He shuddered.

"These Orcs put me in mind of tales I heard long ago from my grandfather, Lord Celeborn." His uncle, Elladan, had spoken, eyes lost in thought. "He spoke of his life in Beleriand in the First Age and the Orcs that lived there. The spawn of Morgoth." The room hang on his every word in horrified transfixion. "Orcs, as you know, were once Elves, taken by the enemy and mutilated beyond repair. These Orcs were of the first generations of their kin, and not yet too removed from their origins. They retained their Elven height and strength, and their minds were not yet brought low or their wits dulled and vulgarised. Their wars against the Elves and the Men of the Edain were brutal for their power was almost equal to their foes."

"But these cannot be the same Orcs," his mother said, turning to her brother. "I too remember those tales. Nothing was said of an unnatural glow, of shadows inside their bodies, nor the ability to disappear at will. They were not described to me as being all but living corpses."

"There are no Orcs like to those of the First Age," Elrohir agreed. "Those Orcs were either destroyed or were intermixed with lesser forms until they became the monstrous, hideous creatures of today."

"They would be long dead now, would they not?" Éomer said. "They did not have the same lifespan as the Elves?"

"Not to my knowledge. And where would they have hidden themselves all these years?"

Eldarion thought back to his lessons in history and lore with his father. Tales of the wars of the Elves in the First Age had never been his favourite; the only Elves he knew were his mother and uncles, and he much preferred the more relevant history of Númenor and the Third Age. He struggled to remember some details now.

"We also do not know what motive they have," his father said. "Orcs seldom raid for no purpose, especially in recent years. A force as large as this must have some leader, some reason for assailing the kingdoms of Men."

"A new Sauron," Merry said, and the room shuddered as one.

"There is something I have observed, my lord," Bergil said, glancing at Eldarion. "I spoke of it before to you. In every skirmish I have been in, the Orcs seem to deliberately target Prince Eldarion, drawing him away from the others. They do not attempt to kill him, but get close enough to grab hold and whisk him away."

Eldarion squirmed as every eye turned to him. True, he too had noticed this, but he could not attribute any particular reason to it other than a desire to kidnap the king's heir with an aim to use it against him somehow.

"Not only the prince," said Beregond, Bergil's father and captain of Farmir's personal guard. "In our fights in Ithilien, I have observed the same phenomenon with Lord Elboron."

Now it was Elboron's turn to be analysed, and he looked far more uncomfortable about it.

"Ransom?" asked Prince Imrahil.

"It is not the way of Orcs."

"Revenge then? Something symbolic to weaken our morale?" Imrahil looked from one to the other. "They are the two most prominent young lords in Gondor, the future King and his Steward. "It would be the end of the newly re-established Kingdom if they were both to be taken and killed in some public manner."

Elboron's eyes had widened, and Eldarion had to refrain from rolling his. The man was not adept at hiding his emotions.

"Ransom or public execution, we cannot be certain," Elrohir said, "for these Orcs as we have observed do not follow the usual patterns. Lord Elboron and my nephew may be being targeted for another purpose entirely. One we do not yet understand."

As he said this, Elboron and Eldarion's eyes met across the room. Both knew what the other was thinking. These visions and phantom pains may be linked to this matter. It was beyond his understanding, and it frightened him more than a little. Elboron felt it too, and he was restless in his chair, glancing towards his father and the king. Eldarion met his eyes again and shook his head almost imperceptibly.  _Not yet_ , he mouthed. Elboron resisted and frowned at him, jerking his head towards his ankle. Eldarion flexed his own, disturbed by this latest development. But why would Orcs be targeting them because of something like this? He shook his head again, and Elboron slumped in his chair. Mercifully, no one seemed to have noticed this exchange.

"We must consider it possible," his father said gravely. "The only people largely unaffected by these raids seems to be the Dwarves. Whether that is because most of their settlements lie within the caves themselves and are harder to attack or some other purpose remains to be seen. Ithilien has been struck hard, as well as Gondor, and Rohan to a lesser extent. All those lands which these two men lay claim to. The attacks may be an attempt to somehow draw them out."

The conversation had now turned into one that made Eldarion's heart thump painfully against his chest. These attacks could be for the sole purpose of capturing him? Those people that were dying …

As he considered this, the doors to the hall were thrown open, and in the frame stood a small but broad figure, fully armoured and with two axes strapped to his belt under a thick beard.

"Started without me, eh?" the figure boomed. "Not very courteous these halls of yours, Aragorn!"

His father laughed, his cares vanishing for a moment. "You must forgive me, Gimli. Come and be seated."

"I didn't even know you were invited," Pippin said, as the Dwarf stumped towards them and sank into a chair a servant brought for him. "If you were, you're very late and ought to be apologising."

"Indeed, Master Took, indeed," Gimli said. "But don't think you can get one over on me so easily. I was not invited."

"Then why did you come? I thought you were in the North?"

"I came to ask for aid, but it seems as if you have your own troubles." The Dwarf peered around the room. "My visit to the King under the Mountain was less pleasant than I had hoped it would be. King Thorin III asked me to come south again to bear the news and ask for assistance."

"What ill news do you bear?" his kin from the Glittering Caves cried. "What other evils now befall that kingdom?"

"Orcs," Gimli spat. "Of the same kind I believe that I have since heard have been plaguing you. We in the Lonely Mountain were left well enough alone, but our allies in Dale were besieged nightly by these foes. Outlying homes burned, innocents murdered. The Men of Dale and the warriors from Erebor have held them at bay, but our defences remain weak. Thorin asked me if you would consent to release some of your men in Arnor to help in the fight, Aragorn."

"Gladly I will grant it," his father said, "but your news is grievous indeed."

"I guess that squashes our theory that they're after Eldarion and Elboron," Merry said glumly. "What could they want in Dale?"

Eldarion became aware then that Elboron had gone stiff in his chair, hands clenching the wooden arms so tightly that his hands were white. They exchanged a look of panic. Elboron had been dreaming of a city beneath a mountain under attack. Neither of them had thought it to be Erebor or Dale that he saw, a realm so far off and mostly unconcerned with events in Gondor. Could someone in Dale be the source of their visions? He thought of his own vision of the waterfall in the gully and his theory collapsed. There was nothing like that in Dale as far as he knew. His heart still raced however, as he knew Elboron's would be. This was the first confirmation that they things they were seeing and experiencing could be real.

He thought of his own dreams of late, filled with dark shadows and burning pain. He thought he sensed a presence there with him, a flickering light in the dark, sometimes accompanied by a fair laugh at odds with the surroundings. That laugh lingered with him into his waking hours, so clear and free of taint.

Elboron was deathly white and Eldarion could see his resolve was wavering. He had to do something, quickly.

"My lord-" Elboron began, but Eldarion cut him off.

"What about the Elves?" he said swiftly, making Elboron start. "What is happening on their lands?"

He looked solely at Gimli, but was aware of Elboron's eyes boring into him, angry and confused. Unfortunately, this exchange had not gone unwitnessed. Both his own father and Elboron's had turned their gazes in their direction with a frown. Gimli sighed heavily and rested a hand on his axe.

"That is the second part of my ill news."

"Not more!" Pippin cried. "What has happened now? Has Sauron himself risen again in Dol Guldur?"

"Do not joke of such things," Gimli said, "I fear some darkness indeed has fallen on Mirkwood again. I heard tell that they too have been besieged by Orcs, though the details are somewhat sketchy. The Wardens of the Forest would not allow me to pass, and so I had to take the long road around. They were afraid of something. Something terrible has occurred."

"Is Legolas alright?" Sam asked in distress. "I couldn't bear it if it had. He being so good to us all those years ago."

"I did not see him, which disturbed me," Gimli said, great pain in his eyes. "Never since the fall of Sauron have I been denied entry into Mirkwood. The friendship I have with Legolas has eased the hostilities between our two races, and we have never been on better terms. He would not have turned me away, so I fear something indeed has befallen him. Something terrible enough to reignite all their old fears of outsiders. I fear a return to the days of darkness."

"We will not allow it," the king said, and it appeared to him and everyone seated there that a change had come over him. Gone were his cares and worries, replaced by a fierce determined fire in his eyes and a strong resolute expression. His voice seemed to resonate inside each of their heads. "We did not fight and suffer insurmountable loss for one short quarter century of peace. We will not allow darkness to once again cover our lands. We will fight it now, before evil can fully take root again. This will not be a repeat of times gone by. We will fight, and we will win."

The room was lifted by this speech and they called out cries of loyalty and support. A new fire had been lit beneath them and all were bound by their love and respect for this great king who had once before led them to salvation.

Eldarion watched this effect his father had and could not help but be disheartened. His father was like a king of old, the glory of Númenor embodied in one man. All loved him. All would gladly lay down their life for him.

Who would do the same for him? How could he follow such a man? He could not even be trusted to lead patrols without being babysat by Bergil.

If any were to find out about his and Elboron's strange visions now … his chance of winning glory to match his father would never be realised.

* * *

Elboron stood outside the doors to the hall, trembling though the day was yet warm. He was afraid, and he did not know what to do.

That his visions were real terrified him, and he could not stop thinking about Dale, and whoever's eyes he was seeing through. Someone was in Dale watching his destruction grow closer and closer and was able to do nothing to stop it.

If only Eldarion had not cut across him. He could have ended this burden he bore. Elessar needed to know what was happening to his son and foster-son. Neither of them could explain it, but perhaps he might. At the very least he would have someone else to speak to of it.

Eldarion seemed desperate to solve the mystery on his own, to save face probably. Elboron had no such scruples. He knew he was no leader of men. He was a poor replacement of his father as Captain of the White Tower. He was no warrior at heart, 'gentle-natured like his father' he had been described as before now. But his father at least could command men and win their love. What could he do? His father chose not to live his life as a warrior, but could readily become one if needed. Elboron could fight, but had even less of a stomach for it than his father did.

He heard his name be called, and looked up as his uncle Éomer came to stand by him. "It has been too long since we met, Elboron," he said in Rohirric. "Not since your promotion. I have heard you are doing well."

Elboron tried not to scoff aloud.  _Doing well._  He was trailing in Eldarion's footsteps wherever he went. He had not the confidence the prince had to command others.

"It goes as well as it can in such times, uncle," he replied instead. "I have been in Ithilien with my parents defending its borders."

"I had heard that Éowyn had taken up her sword once more," Éomer said heavily. "Her heart is courageous, but I fear for her. She had sworn against such an eventuality. Still, evil times must be met with hard choices."

Yes, his mother certainly was courageous. He resembled her more than his father, and people often expected that he too would carry out great acts of valour as she had. But the bravery of the House of Eorl and his forefathers seemed to elude him. Why could he not be more like her instead of his father? Perhaps then it would be easier for him to find distinction among his people. As it was, he feared he would one day fade into oblivion.  _The shy captain of Ithilien. No one will remember me._

Éomer rested his hand on his shoulder. "Worry not, my sister-son. These evil days shall soon pass with Aragorn leading us. You should have seen him in battle. His enemy would flee before him. He shall not lead us wrong."

No, he probably wouldn't, he thought. But the choices of his son more and more felt to Elboron like he was leading them both down a path they could not escape from.

Elboron looked like one of the brave men of Rohan. Why could he then not act like one and speak against his friend for the first time in his life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider leaving some feedback if you're enjoying this story! I'd love to hear some opinions :)


	7. Attack in Ithilien

 

The people of Gondor now knew that the situation was desperate. King Elessar himself had taken to the field for the first time in fifteen years to drive off this new threat. It was both an encouraging sight to see him riding past in his shining mail with his famous sword raised high and a terrifying one, the unquestionable sign that things truly were dire.

 

In the past two weeks the attacks had only increased in intensity. His father had ordered the people of Gondor into their closest strongholds, holing themselves up with as much as they could carry to lessen the amount of targets that could be hit while his armies gathered their strength for an assault upon Minas Morgul. Large fortified settlements were still the safest places to be. Unfortunately, the journeys to those settlements were fraught with danger, and needed constant guard, especially at night, for that was when the attacks always came.

 

Eldarion was accompanying one now, taking a small village of people from a village in Ithilien to Minas Tirith. Their progress was painfully slow, and night had fallen too quickly. They had stopped for the night, deeming it too dangerous to continue, praying that the Orcs would not come across them that evening. Elboron was with him on this journey and was now on guard with the others while Eldarion caught some sleep. Not that he was getting any.

 

His dreams of confusing shadows and lingering pain had given way to something more substantial. Instead of darkness he saw a room whenever he closed his eyes, a dungeon with chains upon the wall. One narrow little slit passed for a window and through it pale moonlight filtered through, dully illuminating the tiny cell. He saw no one, but knew there was someone there with him. A presence that waxed and waned in strength. It was in pain, and its thoughts were dark. He sensed fear and dread, but above all grief. Grief so powerful he often awoke with tears in his eyes. Loss, what was it was. Profound loss.

 

His dream that night passed like all the others, real yet fleeting and unfulfilling. He heard a laugh ere he woke, as he often did. He wondered that the presence, so grief-stricken and so full of pain could laugh, yet it did. A laugh that raised his spirits every time he heard it, seeming to make his soul glad and his heart skip a beat. It almost made the pain of the dreams worth it. He loved to hear that laugh.

 

The journey the next morning was full of tension as he and the men tried to hurry the villagers on lest they need spend another treacherous night out in the open. He noticed Elboron riding close by him, but avoiding his eyes. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, swaying in his saddle. He was even quieter than he usually was. His dreams had not subsisted either. Every night he was back in Dale watching the Orcs assail it and the Dwarves and Men defend it. Neither of them could yet work out the significance of it all.

 

As they finally approached the city and hurried the villagers inside the mithril gates Eldarion kept a close eye on his friend. Things had been strained between them lately. They stayed up long into the night as they had once done as children telling silly ghost stories, only now it was their own phantoms they were discussing. That some sort of mental bond existed between them they were certain; when either of them sustained hurt in battle the other seemed to feel it to lesser degree, even when they were nowhere near each other. Each time they experienced a hurt that was not their own they were assailed with the emotions of the other, and sometimes a fleeting vision as well. They wondered whether it might not be the result of some latent power of Eldarion’s Elvish blood that would form this link between them, building upon the strong friendship they already had. Indeed, his great-grandmother Galadriel had been known to communicate with the minds of others over great distances. Though he had never met her, it seemed possible he could have discovered an ability he did not know he had when faced with the dangers around him.

 

This however did not explain the dreams the two of them were experiencing. Why should Elboron be seeing into the mind of someone in Dale? He had no Elvish parentage, at least none in recent years. Nothing made sense.

 

That evening he slept in his own bed for the first time in two weeks, but the soft sheets and pillows were deceptive, for in his dream they soon turned into hard stone-cold walls behind his back. He was once more in the little cell lit by moonlight. He shivered in the cold air. His body ached from hunger and from some greater hurt. His wrists stung like they had been bound, his back burned as if touched by a whip. That grief was upon him again, that heavy unbearable grief.

 

The dream deepened and he found it became clearer, almost like memory. He had no control, but was a silent observer as his head twisted from side to side. Then, the head looked down and he saw hands before him. They were so pale they almost shone, long delicate fingers with nails encrusted with grime. They were trembling, with fear or cold he could not say.

 

Though he had heard no noise, the head jerked as the door to the cell was thrust open. One of the Shadow Orcs stood there, leering at him. It set down a bowl of water upon the stones, threw in a hunk of bread and spoke words he could not hear. Then followed the sound he lived for each night, that wondrous laugh, carefree and light, reminding him of spring days under the sun. The Orc scowled and slammed the door shut.

 

Slowly, the white hands reached out and pulled the bowl closer and bent over it. There reflected in the water he saw a face, a pale, fair face framed by black hair. A woman’s face. A jolt ran through him as he looked into that woman’s eyes, and the dream shifted, as though she had felt something too, and the next moment he was dragged unwillingly back into the land of the waking.

 

He lay in bed a moment longer, drenched in sweat. That woman … who was she? Why was he seeing her? Why was she a prisoner of the Orcs? He had to know. His heart was filled with a powerful, unstoppable drive to find her, know her name, find out why he had such a connection with her. She was no longer a phantom in a dream. She was real. She was in pain. He had to find her.

 

Perhaps she was now thinking the same about him.

 

* * *

 

He was summoned early to his father the next day. He was with one of the leaders of his patrols, and his expression was dangerous. The soldier bowed and made a hasty exit as Eldarion entered.

 

“The watch-towers around Mordor have fallen,” he said, when Eldarion looked to him. “Evil is now creeping back into Mordor.”

 

“This is worse than we could have imagined,” he said, his heart growing cold. “How have they grown so powerful? There seems to be no end to their numbers.”

 

“Indeed,” his father said, and then he sat down, betraying a moment of weakness on his noble face that he would not do around anyone else. “This is not the world I wanted for you, Eldarion.”

 

“But it is the world we are in, _adar_ , and we must face it the best we can,” Eldarion said, taking a seat beside his father. He smiled at that, and turned to him.

 

“You have the wisdom of your grandfather,” he said softly, reaching out to touch his face. He laughed as his fingers moved to the side of his head. “As well as his ears.”

 

Eldarion laughed too, feeling the darkness drain away for a moment as his father traced the subtle points of his ears. “I fear I have not been too wise of late,” he said, thinking back to his poor decisions in recent battles and the secret he was now keeping. “I doubt he would think much of me.”

 

“I disagree,” his father said. “Lord Elrond would be proud of the Man you are becoming. He was proud of me when I was your age, and I had not half your good judgement.”

 

Eldarion looked away. Somehow, he doubted that. He knew how much of a disappointment he would be to his father if he knew half of what was going on.

 

“I will ride out to Ithilien tomorrow,” his father said. “I must see for myself what has become of the defences. To have evil back in Mordor again … it must be stamped out now. I’d like you and Elboron to accompany me.”

 

Eldarion stiffened, but nodded. “Yes, _adar._ ”

 

His father caught the tone of his voice and forced his son to look at him. “What is going on with you and Elboron?” he asked. “It pains me to see the two of you so distant from each other.”

 

“Distant?” he asked nervously.

 

“Elboron barely speaks, and though that is hardly unusual, you at least could always liven him up. But now he isolates himself, even from you. Has something happened?”

 

When Eldarion remained silent, his father sighed, and rested his hand on his shoulder. “It gave me great joy to see the way you two bonded as children. I knew then a great friendship would grow between you, comrades-in-arms and brothers in all else. All the better considering that one day he will become Steward to me and perhaps also to you. Where you were loud and brash, he was quiet and deep-thinking. You balance each other perfectly, and Faramir and I have long encouraged this bond. But lately … we both have observed that he is troubled, and that you share this burden. I saw the looks between you at the council. I ask now, my son, what is it that is bothering you?”

 

For a moment, Eldarion considered telling him everything, the link with Elboron, his dreams of the female prisoner, the overwhelming fear that something outside of his control was taking over his body. But something held him back.

 

“Nothing is wrong, father,” he said, meeting his father’s eyes. “There is naught between Elboron and I.”

 

It was the first time in his life that he had directly lied to his father, and the king knew it. The pain in his eyes then was almost too much for him to bear.

 

* * *

 

 

The Orcs had come out of nowhere.

 

Barely had the sun set along the road the travelled in Ithilien when the Shadow Orcs had leapt upon them, killing several in the party before swords could even be drawn. They had been waiting for them.

 

Eldarion fought with all his strength, his sword flying through the air as he tried to decapitate every Orc that came at him. Chillingly, he noticed yet again that they were more focused on grabbing him than harming him. He did not know what would happen if one of them managed to lay a hand on him, but he feared it more than anything, a great misgiving growing inside him. Elboron too fought surrounded by Orcs, the terror in his eyes to his credit did not prevent him from standing his ground with all the others. _He underestimates himself,_ Eldarion thought wildly as he saw Elboron take down two Orcs with a single stroke. _A true son of Gondor and Rohan._

 

His father too was fighting close by, and Eldarion was amazed at the change in him. Andúril whistled and shone as his father expertly drove back the enemies before him. He saw now for the first time what the people had seen twenty-five years ago against the armies of Sauron. The leader, the king, the warrior. The man that men could love and would follow into the greatest of dangers.

 

The fight was going ill for them, anyone could see that. His father was inching his way slowly towards his son, perhaps fearing that they were beginning to close in on their prize. Eldarion released the last of his energy, determined not to be beaten down. Then, just as he destroyed another Orc he felt a searing pain run along his right arm. He dropped his sword in shock and brought his other hand around to feel along his arm for his injury. But there was none. That could only mean ...

 

Seized with dread, he looked up and saw Elboron clutching his arm, face screwed up in agony as blood seeped out from a wound below his elbow. An Orc was approaching him, his claw-like hand extended towards him-

 

“No!”

 

Eldarion had screamed aloud, but some other change had come over him as well, and his voice seemed to echo in his mind like the roaring torrent of a waterfall. Every last bit of strength Eldarion possessed was sent forth into that cry, all his fear, his dread, and above all his love for his friend. Something seemed to snap within him and for a moment he was no longer in his own body, but looking down on it from above. His thoughts spilled from him in waves, spreading out around him, laced with a power he did not know he possessed. It found a path, at the end of which was another presence, another mind that was familiar to him and it poured forward towards that presence as it from the breaking of a dam.

 

Elboron, within mere inches of the Orc’s grasp suddenly bolted upright as though struck by lightning. As soon as the Orc touched him, it screamed in pain and was consumed by shadow, vanishing entirely. Elboron reeled for a moment, and then fell.

 

Eldarion himself fell to his knees, a wave of weariness crashing into him with the force of a Dwarvish hammer. He had no strength left in him, not even to raise the sword that lay mere inches away from him. They would be overrun entirely.

 

He was made aware then that the battle had changed around him. The Orcs were beginning to flee back into the shadows, running from a new enemy that had entered the fray. Eldarion looked around him and was amazed. _Elves._

 

They had appeared from the darkness without a sound, garbed in green and brown bearing bows and long knives. They shot green tipped arrows with deadly accuracy at their foes, striking them squarely in the forehead and destroying them utterly, while others sliced off their heads with white knives. They were not unfamiliar with this new enemy then; they knew how to fight it.

 

He watched, unable to move from weariness as these Elves, the first he had seen outwith his own family overpowered the Orcs, rescuing the soldiers of Gondor that had been trapped, who stared at them in wonder. The battle was over.

 

Eldarion waited a moment more, mind sluggish with fatigue, until he became aware again of the throbbing in his arm and remembered where it came from. Elboron!

 

He leapt to his feet, so tired he was stumbling like a drunk man and raced to where he had seen his friend fall. He found him lying on the earth clutching a bleeding arm and breathing heavily.

 

“Elboron!” he cried, falling down beside him. “ _Manen le_ , _mellon nín?”_

 

Elboron managed a small smile, but it was clear he was in pain. “ _Avaro naeth._ I’ll live.” He allowed Eldarion to help him into a seating position, leaning back against him. “What … what _was_ that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Eldarion replied, clutching his friend’s shoulders, feeling somewhat sick. “I don’t know.”

 

How had he done that? _What_ had he done? Was that magic? His mind raced with possibilities. Elboron suddenly slumped in his arms and Eldarion was filled with sudden panic.

 

“ _Adar!”_ he cried out, fearful, turning to look over the site of their battle _. “Tolo sí!”_

_Boe enni dulu!”_

 

His father was upon him in an instant, battle-ready. His face went pale as he saw them on the ground.

 

“ _Manen le?”_ he asked, seizing his son around the shoulder and checking him for injury.

 

“ _Im maer. Tiro, Elboron!”_

 

His father turned his attention to Elboron then, whose face had now drained of all colour. Elboron felt himself wavering as he knelt there, fighting the urge to collapse. His father took Elboron’s arm and cast aside the split armour there to reveal a deep wound in the flesh. He cursed to himself and ripped a section of cloth from his cloak and pressed it against the wound to staunch the bleeding, calling over his shoulder for supplies from one of the men. Eldarion remained kneeling there, supporting Elboron, his fingers digging deep into his flesh. Something had changed within him. He felt as lost as a child, trembling from within and shamefully close to tears. From the … the _magic_ or whatever it was and now this. Was this because of that magic? _What was happening to them?_

 

His father worked quickly, dressing the wound with the fetched bandages and tying them tightly. He looked into Elboron’s face and Eldarion saw a flicker of fear there.

 

“ _Man siniath?”_ he asked desperately. His father carefully schooled his expression.

 

“The wound is not too grievous,” he explained. “He should not be so weak.”

 

Eldarion closed his eyes. _I knew it_. _What I did … it has hurt him. I’ll never forgive myself if this goes ill._

 

“His father’s home is not far, we will take him there,” his father said. “We should have stopped long before nightfall. We were unprepared. If it were not for the Elves ...”

 

Eldarion noticed then that one of the Elves had approached them, holding back on the sidelines with a pensive expression. Tall and strong he looked, with fair hair and blue eyes, a long bow strapped to his back. Something about him seemed familiar, though he was certain he had never seen him before.

 

“ _Le hannon.”_ He thanked the Elf, who nodded to him. His father looked up then and leapt to his feet the next moment with joy.

 

“Legolas!” he cried. “ _Mae govannen, mellon nín!”_

 

He pulled the Elf into an embrace, which was warmly returned. “ _Suilad, Aragorn._ It has been too long,” he said, smiling, his face deceptively youthful. But that smile did not reach his eyes, which were stormy with wild emotion. He looked at the two youths on the ground.

 

“Your son?”

 

“Eldarion, yes. And Elboron, son of Faramir.”

 

Legolas looked at both of them. “I remember,” he said softly. “Though both of you were only babes when I last looked on you.”

 

Eldarion did not know how to respond to this. He had heard many tales of Legolas and his prowess with a bow, ranked the greatest marksman of his time, and other more informal tales of the Fellowship and their everlasting friendship. But unlike the other members of the Fellowship who were regular visitors to Gondor, Legolas had stayed away, occupied with his people in the north as they sought to restore the damage done to the woods in the war and to their allies in Dale. The last his father had seen him had been five years ago, when he last held court at Annúminas in Arnor. Legolas and the Hobbits had been his guests of honour. Eldarion had been forced to remain behind to complete his studies.

 

Legolas returned his attention to the king. “I must speak urgently with you, Aragorn,” he said, his voice low. “No time may be wasted.”

 

His father nodded. “Then let us be off. I head to Emyn Arnen for the night, where Elboron may recover in his father’s house. We may talk there.”

 

Legolas agreed, and turned to speak to his woodland warriors who then quickly prepared to depart, fetching spent arrows and helping the wounded. Legolas had been described to Eldarion many times by those who knew him, and all spoke of his gentleness, his joy for nature and the way he would often sing under his breath. But he did not see that in the Elf before him. He saw someone struggling with immense pain, a light in his eyes had been extinguished. He was a man that was grieving.

 

 

* * *

 

**A/N: Please consider leaving some feedback if you’ve enjoyed this. I welcome it all :)**

** Sindarin Elvish ** **:**

**Adar- Father**

**Manen le** **, mellon nín?- How are you, my friend?**

**Avaro naeth- Don’t worry.**

**Tolo sí! Boe enni dulu!-  Come here! I need help!**

**Im maer. Tiro, Elboron!- I’m well. Look, Elboron!**

**Man siniath?- What news?**

**Le hannon- Thank you**

**Mae govannen, mellon nín- Well met, my friend**

**Suilad, Aragorn- Greetings, Aragorn**


	8. New Questions

 

The journey to Emyn Arnen was swift, the very presence of the Elves walking alongside them seemed to make the journey pass more quickly, their keen eyes searching all around the dark countryside around them for another ambush. Eldarion rode more slowly than usual, for Elboron was seated before him, still weakened from his wound. He shifted his eyes to either side, wishing that the others would not ride so closely. He must speak with Elboron about what had happened during the fight. He had to try and understand if he had caused his friend any suffering.

The great hall at Emyn Arnen sat within a ring of meadows that bloomed with wondrous colour in spring, filling the air with sweet, renewing scent, but now lay colourless and plain. A small village ran down the side of the hill on which it lay, and all was encircled with a tall wall stationed with many guards. They were admitted immediately, and the party made its way to the hall, less grand but no less beautiful than Minas Tirith, where Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn stood outside to greet them. When Faramir saw Elboron lying slumped before the prince he cried out in distress.

"Alas! What has happened?"

"He will recover, Faramir, do not trouble yourself," the king said as he dismounted. "Have him taken to his chambers to rest."

Éowyn ran forwards and took Elboron from Eldarion, supporting him with one of his arms around her neck and hers around his waist. He had recovered enough strength to walk with his mother into the hall. Eldarion watched him go with a heavy heart. Faramir made to follow them.

"Not yet, Faramir, we must speak before you go to him, it cannot wait," his father said. Faramir looked as if he wished to argue, but nodded and gestured for them to enter.

The halls were warm and pleasant, and Eldarion felt some of his terror begin to subside. His trembling had finally ceased, and the darkness did not seem so absolute. As they entered they saw Éomer coming towards them. "I just saw Elboron go by. What befell him?"

"We were attacked on the road," his father said. "He sustained a nasty wound, but will soon be well again."

It was then Eldarion saw another small figure lurking behind Éomer. "Damn Orcs! Can't a lad come home in peace any more?" Gimli stepped out in front of them all, taping his axe as usual. It appeared he was about to launch into another tirade when he saw who stood at the king's side.

"Legolas!" he called. "It pleases my heart to see you, my friend! I have long feared the worst ever since your people refused my passage along the Old Forest Road. Took me twice as long to get home!"

"I apologise," said Legolas, smiling a little, but still looking grave. "But recent events have given us good reason to be cautious."

"Your lands have been subject to attack then too?" Faramir asked.

"We were attacked only once," Legolas said, and his face crumpled with grief. "But it was enough, for they stole from us our greatest treasure."

He halted a moment, voice thick with anguish. "Twenty of our strongest warriors were captured by the Orcs, and among them was one who should not have been there. My daughter, Neniel Galadhwen, the Princess of Mirkwood."

Chilling, horrified silence met these words. The Elven warriors stood sombre, some weeping openly. Legolas himself looked close to tears.

" _Nae, gerich naergon nín,_ " his father said, hand on heart. "When did this take place?"

"Nigh on six weeks ago." Legolas was breathing heavily. "She sneaked into our Company as we attacked the Orcs. We did not know she was there until too late. They surrounded her and before we could do anything they had literally vanished into the shadows, taking our people with them."

"They carried them into the shadows? Then it was by some prior design?"

"I believe so. They targeted her specifically."

Eldarion stared at him in horror, feeling the ground begin to slip away from him.

"Your daughter taken, Aragorn and Faramir's sons almost taken … what on earth do these Orcs want?" Gimli exclaimed.

Legolas did not answer, and turned to his father. "Aragorn, I need your help," he said quickly. "We have been unable to track these Orcs through the shadows, but our scouts have seen much as they have searched for her. We believe she has been taken prisoner to Minas Morgul. You know she cannot long survive there. I beg of you for your aid." Tears now fell freely down his face. "She is twenty-four years old, Aragorn, not yet fully grown by our standards. I cannot abandon her there."

"I will not ask you to," his father said, a new light in his eyes. "I swear to you now to do what I can to rescue your daughter, by whatever strength is in my blood. Evil has infiltrated Minas Morgul and Mordor once more on my watch. I will not rest until that evil has been annihilated."

Eldarion did not listen to the rest of the conversation. He was far away in his own thoughts, his head pounding painfully as he tried to make sense of it all. The Elven princess had been singled out in that attack. He and Elboron were singled out. He and Elboron shared a bond of the mind. The Elven princess was a prisoner …

He froze as he realised the ramifications of where his thoughts were leading him. The girl of his dreams, the woman trapped in that tiny cell with only pain and grief for company … was Legolas' daughter. For weeks now he had been sharing her thoughts, her feelings, her sight. He saw the waterfall once more, remembering now that the halls of the Elvenking were situated at the confluence of two rivers where they fell from a cliff. That vision had been … six weeks ago. Only a few days later had be first experienced a phantom pain. That pain had not come from Elboron that time. It had come from Princess Neniel as she was captured.

He saw her now more clearly than ever, no dream this time, but a living vision. He saw the room around her, dark and unforgiving, miles removed from this welcoming hall. He could feel her agony, her despair rippling through him. He could feel Elboron's too, his arm throbbing in pain, his body weak and feeble. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. The world around him was spinning. His head ached, and his soul was being crushed under the weight of two others. Three of them were sharing this link, perhaps four if Elboron's visions of Dale were also found to be real. Their minds were as one. And the Orcs were after them. He had never before wished so deeply that he was as brave as his father.

The weakness he had experienced in the forest came back upon him in full force, his body drained of all vitality until he felt as weak as a child. His mind was no longer under his own control, instead two other presences were forcing themselves upon it, pushing with all their might until he could hardly distinguish his own thoughts. Pain, grief, despair … pain, grief, despair … so weak ...

Unable to bear any more he felt his legs collapse under him and he went tumbling to the stone floor, clapping his hands against his ears, body trembling like a leaf..

" _Ego, lamath! Ego!"_

The world before him was changing rapidly, flashing lightning quick between the cold cell, Famamir's hall, and another room that he knew to be Elboron's. He felt as if he was floating, neither here nor there, lost in an abyss.

He heard his name be called but he could not pull himself back into his own mind. He was falling …

* * *

Eldarion awoke, his body aching all over, still lost in the mugginess of sleep. His eyes remained closed as he drifted into consciousness, his mind struggling to make sense of the world. He was warm and comfortable, the sheets around him soft and soothing. Gradually, the sound of voices came to him. He opened his eyes a fraction and looked out, seeing that he lay in a bright room where rays of sunlight danced on the walls. At the entrance to the room his father stood, deep in conversation with Faramir. Eldarion frowned. How had he gotten here?

"I'm worried, Aragorn," Faramir was saying, his shoulders hunched. "Something is happening with our sons."

"I fear it too, but I cannot make sense of it," his father said. "Something about those Orcs affects them more than any other. Elboron's wound was not serious, and Eldarion was not harmed at all, yet both succumbed entirely to some great malady. And it is not the first time for either."

"What was it he said before he swooned," Faramir asked. "The Elvish?"

His father was silent a moment. "He said: 'Be gone, echoing voices. Be gone.'"

"Voices?" Faramir's tone was frightened now. "What is happening to them?"

"Something I fear I have no power to halt."

"You must know something!" Faramir folded his arms across his body as though trying to give himself comfort. "There is something that they are both keeping from us, and that disturbs me greatly, for neither of them are deceitful at heart. They are not themselves. And this news of Legolas cannot be a coincidence. They are targeting our children, Aragorn."

Something clicked then in Eldarion's mind. Legolas … the elf-maiden ... the magic … He was suddenly fully awake. He tried to sit up, and was met by a splitting headache, making him gasp aloud.

His father's head snapped around at the noise and he swiftly came to his side, placing his hand over Eldarion's. Faramir backed out of the room to allow them some privacy and when he had gone, his father spoke.

"Do not try to move, you are still weak."

"I'm fine," Eldarion sad, ignoring him and sitting upright, massaging his temples.

His father watched him anxiously. "What happened, Eldarion?" he asked gently. "What hurt befell you?"

"None," he answered, avoiding his father's eyes. "It was the fatigue of the battle, nothing more."

"But you are hurt-"

"Only my pride," Eldarion said uncomfortably. "Did everyone see me faint?"

"They are worried about you."

"They have no need to be, and neither have you." His father did not believe him, and Eldarion did not believe himself. He prayed his father would simply let him be, not ask any more questions. He needed to speak with Elboron before anything else. He needed to try and understand what had happened between them. His father could not know yet. He could not appear to be any weaker than he already looked. How then would he ever earn his respect?

"I wish you would speak with me, Eldarion," his father said, his eyes pained. "Something is frightening you. I would know what it is."

"I'm not frightened."

"I know you, my son," he said. "It showed after the battle. You rarely slip into Elvish around those who are not your family, only when you are subject to great emotion; joy, wonder, love … and fear."

"Elboron was hurt. I worried for him."

"It was more than that. You never show fear around others. And what occurred in the hall below …"

Eldarion flushed in embarrassment. So this was what his father thought of him, a cowering child in need of protection? He took a steadying breath and met his father's eyes.

"I need to speak with Elboron."

His father's face tightened. He stood and moved away from the bed, pausing to turn back in the doorway, his expression was closed and his eyes sad. "You both must rest for today while we carry out our patrols of Mordor's border. You are not to disturb each other. Whatever secret counsels the two of you must have with each other, it can wait." His gaze hardened. "Whatever it is cannot be so important that you would not tell your king."

He left the room, and Eldarion groaned, holding his head in his hands.  _Valar help me._

* * *

"Are you trying?"

"Yes, of course I am!"

"Then why is nothing happening?"

"Because this is sheer folly!" Elboron threw down his hands and stood up, stalking to the other side of Eldarion's chambers in frustration. "We cannot create magic, Eldarion!"

"We did before!" his friend urged, also standing. "What else could explain that battle? You know it as well as I."

"I don't know anything, Eldarion," Elboron sighed, and it appeared then as if he had become a whole lot younger. "I don't understand."

Eldarion softened and came to stood by his friend, a hand on his shoulder. Elboron looked up with weary eyes too old for that youthful face.

"Our minds are linked together, Elboron," he said gently. "That much we know. When we are in danger, or in a state of great emotion, that link becomes tangible. That is why we can feel each other's hurts, see what the other sees. During that fight, something else happened. Some power was transferred from me to you, power that destroyed that Orc with a single touch. Magic, perhaps, I'm not sure. That is why we must explore it. Know for certain."

"It frightens me, Eldarion," he said. "When our minds are like that, I cannot tell whose is whose. What if we lose ourselves entirely in each other and cannot return to our own minds?"

That thought also had come to Eldarion, and he could not lie and tell his friend that he was not also troubled by it. This entire procedure had him spooked.

"What if something like that happens again by accident?" he reasoned. "We were both like helpless kittens after the magic, and that could be our downfall in another fight. We need to learn to control this, whatever the risks."

"What we need is to tell your parents."

Eldarion dropped his arm and moved away, heart thumping painfully. "We cannot."

"They were both raised in Imladris. Your mother is the granddaughter of the Lady of the Wood. If anyone were to know about magic, it would be them."

Eldarion breathed deeply, trying to come up with a rational explanation for his reluctance to reveal their secret. But how could he explain it? How could he make Elboron see just how vital it was that he take control of this on his own? He did not want to remain the failed prince of Gondor, the mere shadow of his father whom everyone looked down on an inferior copy. This was what he needed to do to prove that he was more than some half elf living off his father's glory. If they could understand this phenomenon, figure out why the Orcs were after them, it could be the thing that changed his fate.

"Not yet," he said finally. "Let us try on our own first. It would only worry them."

"They're worried enough as it is," Elboron said. "And what of Legolas? When are you going to tell him you're seeing visions of his daughter?"

"When are you going to tell Gimli you're seeing visions of some Man or Dwarf of Dale?" Eldarion shot back. He immediately regretted his harsh tone as he saw Elboron's flinch. "What use would it be to say anything?"

"He would at least know his daughter is alive."

"And still beyond his reach," Eldarion said. "It would be more curse than blessing. What if the visions were to suddenly cease? What conclusion would we draw then? Until we know why the three of us, or four if we include the one from Dale, are so linked together, we cannot offer any reassurances to our families."

Elboron was not convinced, and to be honest, neither was Eldarion. More and more he felt the nagging feeling that he should just admit defeat and tell his father. Was this really wise?

He moved to the window and looked down over the city, now teeming with the multitudes of people evacuated from outlying villages. Smoke loomed on the horizon. The past few weeks had boded ill for all of them. Gondor was burning, Ithilien hit the hardest. Most of the people there had ran, abandoning the homes they had built when Faramir had reclaimed the land after the War of the Ring. The latest reports were that the watch-towers built to guard over Mordor were infested with Orcs and that the land beyond was slowly being overrun once again. Mordor had lain empty all these years, but now the shadow that had once covered it had returned and Orcs lived there again, building new towers of their own. The Orcs that could only live in shadow. The Orcs that so badly wanted the two young lords.

They had still not come up with any reason why, other than they wanted the strange power that existed between them. But that then raised the question of where had this power come from, and why had it arisen now? The two were interlinked, but it was hard to tell which had come first. Was the power in response to the Orcs, or was this power the reason they were here?

And then there was Dale. Why was it being attacked? Eldarion now too had had visions of this city, though his dreams turned most often to the elf maiden. Elboron had seen her also, though only in fleeting glimpses. Who was this mysterious fourth person? Why did Elboron in particular seem more attune to their thoughts?

A knock from the door prevented them from arguing further. Elanor had entered, and offered a quick curtsey to them both, her cheeks pink. Still only a young hobbit-lass, her father had pleaded for her to return to the Shire away from the fighting, but she had the same courage as Sam, and refused to leave her mistress.

"Please, my lord," she said as she lowered her head, still nervous around royalty. "Your mother sends for you. She's waiting in the Houses of Healing. She'd like your aid with the injured."

"I'll be there shortly," he said, thanking her as she left the room. He glanced at Elboron. "We'll try this again another time. Don't worry. I won't ask you to keep it secret much longer."

Elboron made no answer to this, but turned away to look out of the window. As Eldarion left to go to his mother he fiddled with the ring on his finger which had belonged to his grandfather. What wouldn't he give now to have him here in Middle-Earth, or any of his other Elven relations? Perhaps if they had been here he would have had more interest in tales of magic and the spiritual nature of the world and he would be better prepared for this. Elboron's face lingered in his memory. He was failing his friend. The thought sent a stab through his heart.

He helped his mother in the Houses of Healing for several hours, tending to those grievously wounded by the sword of the Orcs. they smiled as he approached, crying out to him: " _Ernil, Ernil!_ " but he felt like no prince to them. Many of the men who lay dying were men under his own command, whom he himself had led into battle. He was responsible for them. They had been fighting for him, and risking their lives to protect him. He did not deserve it. He had done nothing to earn their respect. Their love for him was naught but an extension of their love for his father. How could they have confidence in him when he had none for himself?

" _Man le trasta, ioneg?"_ his mother asked, as he stood by her in the gardens looking out over the city.

"Nothing troubles me,  _naneth_."

"You should not lie to me," she said, turning her piercing gaze upon him. "It is not wise to hide yourself in shadows when shadows already exist around us."

"It has been over two months now," he said heavily, dropping his gaze. "Will this never end?"

She placed her hands over his and offered him a smile that eased his heart. "All things pass, Eldarion. We of long life know that better than most. This shadow will not last. I have no doubt."

As he looked towards the mountains of Mordor, wreathed in smoke, he found it hard to believe her.

Later that evening as the left the houses and made his way back to the seventh level he was halted by the sound of a heated argument in the Courtyard of the Tree. As he recognised his father's voice, he slipped into the shadows of the Citadel, peering to see who it was he was with. He froze as he recognised Legolas in the dull light. He was wringing his hands.

"I cannot wait any longer, Aragorn," he said in strained Elvish. "She has been there too long. I must go."

"Mounting a force large enough to assail Minas Morgul is taking time, Legolas," his father responded. "We cannot afford to make mistakes. A siege must be carefully planned. If anything goes wrong our enemy may attempt to kill her rather than allow her to be rescued. We cannot afford to be reckless."

"But every day she must grow weaker!"

"I am aware of that, but I can do nothing more." His father was pacing now. "We were barely holding back the tide of enemies as it is. To attack before we have gathered our strength would be folly."

"Do you believe that or is it an excuse?" Legolas was glowering at him. "Would you hesitate if it were your son?"

Eldarion glanced towards his father, who had now gone very still. "No, I would not," he admitted. "But then a father is rarely rational when it comes to his children. Recent weeks have proven that to me."

_What did that mean?_  Eldarion frowned to himself.

"I swore I would help you find your daughter, Legolas, but I also have my kingdom to think of. Precious though she is to you, is the life of one Elf worth exposing all of Gondor, and Rohan as well? I cannot act until it is safe to do so."

"So my daughter is expendable?"

"I did not say that."

"You implied it." Legolas was trembling, his hands clenched into fists. "I followed you on many dangers, Aragorn. I went into Moria by your side, pursued Uruk-Hai across hundreds of leagues and defended the realms of men against evil. I walked with you on the Paths of the Dead because of the faith I had in you. Without me you would not wear that crown. I never asked for repayment for my efforts for I knew the rewards were to be seen in victory alone. But was all of that for naught? Will you not aid me now as I aided you?"

"It is not lack of will that prevents me, Legolas," his father said fervently. "Only practicality. We could not win against Morgul as we currently stand. But I promise you that we will go there, you and I. We will find her, I swear it."

"By which time she may already be dead," Legolas said flatly. "The Enemy wanted her for a reason, Aragorn, possibly the same reason they want the prince and his friend. Whatever that reason is, it cannot bode well for any of us. We must get her back."

His father and Legolas walked off then, continuing their argument in more hushed tones as Eldarion considered what he had just heard. His father was stalling the attack on Minas Morgul, which meant he believed it had little chance of success. His heart froze as he thought of the Elven princess trapped in that place. How could they abandon her there? Her suffering was with him always, overtaking his dreams and lingering with him during the day.

He needed to take her from that place. Her presence had been growing fainter every evening of late and he knew she was fading. He had not caught another glimpse of her face since last time, but the memory of it filled him utterly. Above all, the sound of her laughter had become scarce. That wondrous, joyous sound was slowly being wrenched from her in that dark pit. He needed to go after her.

He tried now to reach her, as he had been practicing with Elboron, closing his eyes and bending his thought towards her. He and Elboron had managed in recent days to brush their minds together when they sat for long periods casting out their thoughts in silent meditation, sometimes catching a glimpse through the other's eyes, hearing their voice in their own head or sensing their emotion. But he could not do it with her. His mind simply hit a solid wall.

Was this the reason for their link? So that they could become strong together and rescue her? Was he bound to her? Was this what the ancient songwriters would call his fate, a Doom that has been laid upon him?

All he knew for certain was that time was running out.

* * *

**Sindarin Elvish:**

**Nae, gerich naergon nín-** **Alas, you have my expression of deep regret.**

**Ego, lamath! Ego!- Be gone, echoing voices. Be gone!**

**Ernil, Ernil! - Prince, prince!**

**Man le trasta, ioneg? - What troubles you, my son?**

**Naneth- Mother**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who is reading this story. I've been working on this fic for two years and it's possibly my favourite of all the things I've written (this story is looong) so I'm glad there are people reading it. I'd love love love love to get some feedback from some of you if you have the time. Writers thrive on feedback and it'd make my day :)
> 
> Till next time! :)


	9. Raised Fists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone out there who's reading! Hate to beg for comments, but I'd really love love love it if you could tell me what you think! I thrive on feedback, positive and constructive :)

The ambush was well underway, and Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien and Lord of Emyn Arnen was leading it, his armour shining brightly in the moonlight and his sword flashing as it fell upon his foes. Those who beheld him saw him as he was in his younger years, leading the recapture of Osgiliath, defending Gondor from the armies of Sauron. Elboron saw his father in a way he never had before. He truly was a great warrior, as all the tales told. 

They had gathered around one of the old watch-towers on the borders of Ithilien which had become home to some of the Shadow Orcs and begun to assault it as soon as night fell. The Orcs were falling to their blades like flies.

 As the last Orc outside the tower fell his father turned to face him. “Come, let us go inside.”

 “You think more are within?”

 “Yes, I do. And we should search it for any clues as to their movements.”

 Elboron nodded, gripping his sword tightly. He’d only been back in action for the better part of a week after his arm had healed, but already he felt way out of step. He’d chosen to come back to the land of his birth rather than remain with Gondor’s main army. Eldarion had begged him to remain in Minas Tirith to defend the city by night and practice their ‘magic’ by day, his uncle Éomer had requested his aid in Rohan, and his father had wished him by his side in Ithilien. He was being pulled in so many directions he did not know where to turn.

 His father’s men had already broken through the heavy door at the base of the tower and he entered with his father alert for any movement in the shadows. He tried to keep his arm from trembling, a combination of both fatigue and fear. His dreams had been more troubled lately; the city of Dale was burning, and the person whose mind he was sharing was terrified. He wondered if that terror was not leaking through to his waking thoughts for everyday now he lived with a cold dread and jumped at the slightest noise. Or maybe he really was a coward at heart. He looked at his father up ahead. He’d followed his footsteps and become a Captain of Gondor. It was what was expected for one of his station and breeding after all, despite how much he shied from the thought of it. How could any son of such valiant parents be a coward? 

Eldarion sprung into his vision. What sort of Steward would he become if he feared to speak his mind? His loyalty to his friend was testing every limit he had to the extreme. He did not know how much of this deception he could bear.

 His father’s head jerked and he gave a cry, running up some stairs and into a wide room, some sort of holding area with his sword outstretched. Elboron followed him, summoning what little courage he had, quickly despatching the first leering Orc he came across. As it fell, he could see the rest of the room more clearly where his father and his men were fighting. But beyond them, huddled on the ground in chains were a group of prisoners. Elvish prisoners. 

As Elboron’s gaze fell upon the tall Elf that seemed to be their leader, a jolt of recognition ran through him like fire. In that moment he stood not in Ithilien but in a sun-dappled forest under a green canopy. The Elf was before him, dressed in the garb of a warrior, smiling at him, showing him a variety of weapons and teaching him how to use them. _Istonon._ The word came to him then from long memory. _Teacher_. He looked at the other Elves, and he knew their faces too. His mind wandered once more, and for a second he caught a glimpse of that dark cell and its prisoner … these were the Elves captured alongside her. It was _she_ who was recognising them through his eyes.

  _“Elboron! Tiro!_ ”

 He jumped as Eldarion’s voice sounded as loud in his mind as if he had been standing beside him. But he had no time to wonder what had happened. He had halted a second too long. He turned just as he saw a pair of large, strong arms reaching out to him, seizing him from around his neck. The stench of decay filled his lungs. Panic threatened to overwhelm him then. He struggled fiercely, kicking his opponent away and trying to step out of his reach. Just as it looked he would be grabbed again his father leapt into the frame, slicing off its head with one fell swoop, sending the Orc back into shadows.

 Elboron breathed out, and staggered backwards, his mind still ringing with Eldarion’s voice. He felt sickened. _So close …_  

The battle was over, and the prisoners cried out in joy as the men of Gondor went to free them from their bonds. But Faramir had turned to his son, his face white with fury.

 “What were you _thinking?”_ his father demanded. “Stopping in the middle of battle like that? You should know better!”

“I-I’m sorry, father,” Elboron stammered, his face burning hot.

 “You might have been taken!” his father said, coming closer, his eyes wild. “Do you know what that would have done to me? Your mother?”

 Elboron swallowed, his throat tight. He knew that he now appeared a greater coward than ever. And all his father’s men were here to see this.

 His father’s eyes softened, and he breathed deeply. “Elboron, what is happening to you?” he asked, his voice quieter. “Tell me, please.”

 “I don’t know,” Elboron said honestly. “I don’t _know_.” 

* * *

 Eldarion paced impatiently around the encampment as Osgiliath, his hands clenched in anticipation. He had to be alright … he _had_ to be … 

For a week now his father had been assembling his army here on the east shores outside the city of Osgiliath, which had still not been fully rebuilt. All his father’s allies were here in a veritable city of tents, Éomer, Imrahil, his uncles, Gimli and a contingent of Dwarves, Legolas and his Elves, Éowyn and most of the fighting force of Ithilien and even the three Hobbits, all with short swords strapped to their belts. They were to make an attempt on the Morgul Vale within days. Faramir and other captains had been sent out to retake the watch-towers along the way to ease their passage.

 Elboron had gone with his father to retake one of these towers, and they had been due to return before sunset, which was only in an hour or so, and they had not yet arrived. Eldarion was sick with worry. He ran through what had happened once more. While sitting in his own tent cleaning his sword he had been hit with a wave of emotion from Elboron through their link that had left him gasping for breath. He had blinked and then seen before him a room of fighting Men and Orcs, and Elvish prisoners. Elboron had been staring at them, feeling recognition that Eldarion shared, and had not been aware of the presence that even he, leagues away could sense coming behind him. All he could think about in that moment was warning him, and he had called out with his mind, desperate to be heard, hoping against hope that it would work when so often it had failed in their practice sessions.

 He was left unsatisfied, as the link had broken then and Eldarion was seized with a dread of what that could mean. _Please, Valar, protect him._

 He heard the ringing of a horn, and was running the next second, arriving at his father’s tent just as Faramir was dismounting from his horse. Eldarion ran forwards and did not relax until he saw Elboron beside him. His body felt weak from relief.

 “Valar, be thanked,” he said as he approached. “I thought you had been taken!”

 “He almost was,” Faramir said sharply. His eyes narrowed. “But how do you know that?”

 Elboron looked to Eldarion and he was shocked to see an anger glimmering there behind his eyes. They were spared answering when Eldarion’s father approached with all the lords and ladies of his council.

 “It is done then?” he asked.

 As Faramir answered in the affirmative, Legolas from his position beside the king gave a cry.

 “Arveldir!” He hurried forwards to the group of Elves that had come up behind Faramir and his men and approached their leader. “It gives me great joy to see you.”

 “For us as well, my prince,” the Elf said, bowing. He was dressed in ragged clothes that had likely once been of fine making. “We had thought never to be delivered from our captors.”

 “But is this all of you?” Legolas asked, his face falling. “What of Neniel?”

 Arveldir exchanged glances with his fellow Elves. “The princess was separated from us, my lord. We have not seen her for two weeks.”

 “But what-”

 “I fear some evil purpose in this, Aragorn,” Faramir said then. “The prisoners had been moved there to that tower specifically from Minas Morgul, and not well guarded. The assault was far easier than it should have been.”

 His father’s eyes widened. “You think they wanted us to rescue them? But why? For what purpose?”

 “I cannot say.”

 “But Arveldir,” Legolas interrupted, his voice quick and thick. “Tell me more of my daughter. Tell me what happened after our fight with them.”

 Arveldir’s face was cast in shadow. “They transported us through shadows, I know not how, bringing us to that foul city and chaining us to the walls of its courtyard to be at the mercy of the elements. The Orcs there are fouler than any I have ever fought. They are more corpses than living creatures. We were beaten and starved, forced to watch as they tormented us one by one with whips and brands.” He paused and ran his hand over his face. “I saw many Orcs that were more highly ranked, but there was another presence still in that city, one that was not an Orc, but something worse. We never saw it, but we felt it with us always.”

 “And Neniel?” Legolas’ eyes were pleading now.

 “She was kept in a separate place, locked in a cell away from the rest of us. I don’t know what they did to her there.” The elf’s voice wavered. “Every day they bought her out to look at us. From high on the battlement she was forced to look down on us in the courtyard as they tortured us. But she did not falter. She looked down on us with no fear on her face, lifting our hearts with kind words and smiles. She would not let them destroy her spirit.” 

“They were harsh with her, dragging her forcefully and striking her, but she never cried out nor wept. Instead, she laughed. Laughed at all their cruel jibes and horrors. We saw her last two weeks ago before they moved us to that tower, and she watched us leave with a light in her eyes and a song on her lips. Never have I seen one so brave or noble as she, my lord. A maiden of no fear. Without her fair laughter and resolute spirit I doubt any of us would have long lasted that dark place. She has earned our love a hundredfold.”

 No one spoke for a moment, the Elf’s words ringing through the air. Legolas closed his eyes and managed a small smile through his grief. “ _Neniel, gerich ‘ûn sui raw. Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vín.”_

 Eldarion’s mind was filled then with thoughts of Neniel, remembering the sound of the laughter he had heard in his dreams. That innocent, carefree laughter. It spoke of the bravery and nobility that Arveldir observed, but at odds with what he knew about her. She was terrified, bound by grief and suffering in that dark place. He thought of his dreams of recent nights when her presence had been so much fainter. Her spirit was weakening.

 “Soon we shall be in a position to rescue her, Legolas,” his father said. “Your reunion will not be much longer. Tell me, Faramir, of this attack. What makes you think it was suspicious?”

 Faramir launched into an account of the battle, but Elboron had looked to Eldarion and jerked his head to the side, motioning him to follow. He noticed his father watching them as they left the congregation of kings, princes, lords and ladies of the West but he said nothing as they moved a little way away, further down the hill upon which the king’s tents stood.

 “I’m so glad you’re alright, Elboron,” Eldarion said. “I was so worried about you.” 

“Were you?” Elboron asked, and again Eldarion was surprised at the hint of anger there was in his tone.

 “Of course. I saw what was happening and tried to warn you.”

 Elboron had gone pale. “ _How_ did you do that, Eldarion?” he asked. “How can you be in my mind like that when I am in danger?”

 “I don’t know-”

 “I was almost captured, Eldarion,” Elboron said, his voice rising. His cheeks had gone pink but he looked determined. “He _had_ me. If not for my father I’d now be sharing Neniel’s cell. All because I got distracted in a battle by memories that weren’t even my own!”

 “Elboron, listen-”

 “No, you listen!” he cried, and Eldarion was conscious of a few people on the hill beginning to stare at them. “I’m telling them the truth, Eldarion. We need to tell them now. We’re in danger, all of us. They deserve to know. We can’t do this on our own anymore.”

 “You can’t!” Eldarion said. “They won’t understand. We need to do this together-”

 “Together? That’s a joke! It’s all about you. It’s _always_ about you. Precious Prince Eldarion and his faithful sidekick that keeps his mouth shut.” Elboron was shouting now, his body trembling as he unleashed the pent-up emotions of the last two months. “No more. I’m telling them.”

 He started to walk back up the hill where everyone was now looking at them, but Eldarion was seized with blind panic. He grabbed hold of Elboron’s arm and tried to pull him back. “No!”

 “Let go of me!”

 “Stop this!”

 They struggled a moment before Elboron beat away his arm and tried to leave. Eldarion seized him again and then suddenly he had twisted fully and struck him hard across the face. Reeling from the blow, he saw Elboron’s eyes widen in shock at what he had done. But something now had snapped within Eldarion, his barrage of worry, fear, anger and frustration now released in full force and he no longer saw his friend before him, only an enemy, one he could rage against to ease the fear in his heart. He flew at Elboron, not heeding any of the many people around him and landed his own punch on his jaw, his fist throbbing in pain. Elboron fought back as fiercely, kicking and punching in a way he had never dared in their play fights as boys. In a moment they were on the ground, grabbing at each other, kicking and fighting each other off. Eldarion saw only red before his eyes as he fought as hard as he could through his own pain, determined to pour as much of his own suffering as he could onto this man, landing as many blows as he could on every part he could reach, crying out when he received some in return. He heard people shouting on him but all he could think of was causing as much pain as he could.

 Someone strong seized him from behind and dragged him away from Elboron, who himself had been similarly grabbed by a tall figure. He struggled with all his might, half standing half being lifted by the person behind him as he sought to try and get back to the fight. He shook with fury, straining as hard as he could against his captor.

 “ _Hû úgaun!”_ he cried, glaring across the gap between them, not caring who heard. “ _Gen ú-velin!”_

 Unfortunately, Elboron’s Elvish was almost as good, if not better than his own, and the response was swift.

 “ _Dôl gín cofn! Mítho orch!”_

  _“Gerich thû sui orch!”_

 “ _Dîn!”_ He heard his father shout, his voice cold with anger. “Such childish insults have no place in the mouths of ones of your station. Be silent!”

 Eldarion stopped struggling and breathed deeply, now feeling the pain of those blows and knew they would soon be turning into bruises. It was then he finally noticed that it was his father who had pulled him away from Elboron, and that Faramir had similarly restrained his own son. All those who had been part of his father’s counsel were now gathered around, staring in shock at the scene before them. Eldarion was immediately filled with shame.

 His father let him go and he moved around to his front and stood before him, tall and glowering, and for the first time in his life Eldarion was afraid of him.

 “Explain!”

 Eldarion faltered, but Elboron was quicker.

 “My lord, we need to tell you-”

 “Don’t you dare!” Eldarion interrupted furiously. “You swore to keep this secret!”

 “Well now I’m unswearing,” Elboron countered. His voice was louder than Eldarion had ever heard it before. “All my life I’ve been keeping silence for you, covering for you, lying for you. Well, I’ve had enough! It’s time you stop being a coward and tell the truth.”

 “ _I’m_ a coward!” Eldarion repeated. “You’re the one who’s a coward! Trying desperately to act like a Captain of Gondor when you’d rather huddle inside a library away from the fight.”

 “I’d rather be a scholar than some spoiled prince chasing after glory,” Elboron spat. “It’s pathetic!”

 “Well said by one who cares so little for glory he won’t even speak for fear of drawing attention to himself. Who will ever remember _you?_ ”

 “Enough!”

 His father had shouted again and he glared at them both. The watching crowd was silent, looking from one to the other with mouths agape. Éomer and Éowyn stood near Elboron, watching as if they had never seen him before, and the Hobbits had their hands over their mouths. His uncles were looking at him with identical expressions of astonishment.

 “For two lords of Gondor to be seen brawling like common drunkards brings shame upon the kingdom and all within it,” his father said, voice laced with steel. He looked to his son. “Eldarion Telcontar, tell me now. What is this secret you speak of? Do not lie.”

 Eldarion hesitated, almost quailing under his father’s gaze. He had never looked at him like that before. The thought of telling him now … revealing all of his fears, his doubts and anxieties, the deeply personal nature of what was happening to them … it was shameful. He would be proving himself the unworthiest of sons. A weakling.

 “Tell him!” Elboron shouted, eyes hard. “Go on!”

 Eldarion looked at him, all trace of anger gone in face of his fear. “I can’t,” he choked out, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make me.”

 Elboron’s anger also faded, and he blinked, his eyes softer. “It will not change his opinion of you,” he urged. “ _Estelio enni.”_

 “Eldarion?” His father was now looking at him more closely. His anger too was gone, replaced by fear as his eyes roamed over his son’s face. “Tell me.”

 “I-” he began, voice quavering. He swallowed. “It’s … it’s about … about Neniel.”

 “Neniel?” Legolas had sprung forwards, eyes wide. “What about her?”

 But anything Eldarion might have said next was drowned out by the blowing of many horns and the ringing of bells.

 “Awake! Awake! We are under attack!”

 The call came and everyone immediately reached for their weapons. His father immediately changed from king and father into fearless warrior.

 “It appears you were right, Faramir,” he said gravely. “That raid was too easy. They have followed us here.”

 “For what purpose?”

 His father’s eyes drifted to the two young men, both still breathing heavily and nursing minor wounds.

 “Stay in the camp, both of you,” he said. “We will resume this later.”

 And with a flapping of his cloak and a ringing sound as he drew Andúril from its sheath he had run in the direction of the Orcs and the battle-cries that were already beginning. Soon the others had followed, departing to lead their own men against the enemy, leaving Eldarion and Elboron alone at the foot of the hill, surrounded by the empty tents of the commanders.

 Eldarion stared at his feet, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. His fists were aching and he felt bruises erupting all over his body. His hands shook.

 Elboron said nothing either. The sound of his breathing was loud in the stillness around them, the sounds of battle far off. Neither was willing to break the silence.

  _Coward_ , Elboron had called him, and Eldarion miserably admitted it to be true. No fear in battle had he, but in matters that really counted, he had allowed his fears to overcome him. He was ashamed of himself. 

“ _Goheno nin_ ,” Eldarion burst out, unable to bear it. _Forgive me._

  _“Ú-moe edaved!,”_ came the response, and Eldarion’s head snapped up, hardly daring to believe it.

 “You mean it?” he asked, and when the nod came he exclaimed, “But I said such cruel things to you.”

“Not more cruel than what I said to you.”

 “But you were right,” Eldarion said, running his hands through his hair. “Everything you said was right. I should have told him.”

 “We’ll soon fix that. Everything will be put right,” Elboron said, smiling. “Though I must admit, I like it when you admit you’re wrong.”

 Eldarion laughed. “Don’t get used to it.”

 Elboron joined him, and for a moment they were once again the carefree youths of only a few months ago. But that illusion was soon shattered.

 A creeping cold and terrible stench had overcome them. Out of the shadows of the tents around them evil faces were ogling them, foul mouths stretched wide to reveal rotten, yellow fangs and black tongues. Immediately the two men drew their swords and turned back to back to fight their enemy, but it was of no use. There were at least fifty Orcs to their two blades.

 Eldarion’s heart went cold. _This is the end._  

* * *

 The Orcs vanished as soon as the first light of day crept over the ruins of Osgiliath and fell upon the encampment, as they always did. Aragorn was left with a terrible sense of misgiving as they turned into smoke and fell into to wind. One hundred Orcs against an army of thousands? What could have been their aim?

 Faramir stood by his side, and he too looked troubled. The battle had lasted barely fifteen minutes. Why would Orcs attack in so few numbers for so short a time?

 As he and his Council once more entered the camp to the cheers of their army his worry only increased. He was missing something. Some oversight on his part. His entire being was screaming at him to do something.

 As the troop reached the circle of tents of the commanders he felt a great horror fill him. He knew what had happened.

 “King Elessar! King Elessar!” a young soldier was screaming as he ran towards him. “It’s the Lords Eldarion and Elboron. They’ve been taken!”

 Aragorn felt his body turn to ice. It seemed to him then that he had been standing upon a great precipice and how he was falling, down and down into an endless Void.

 He turned to Faramir whose face had gone slack with fear. “That rescue did have a purpose,” he said faintly. “It made sure that both of them were in the same place at the same time.”

 Faramir said nothing, and instead fell to his knees. Aragorn felt like joining him. He caught Legolas’ eye and for the first time truly understood what he had been going through. 

He did not think he could survive this pain.

* * *

  ** Sindarin Elvish: **

**Istonon- Teacher**

**Tiro! - Look out!**

**Neniel, gerich ‘ûn sui raw. Unad nuithatha i nîr e-guren nalú aderthad vín- Neniel, you have the heart of a lion. Nothing will stop the weeping of my heart until our reunion.**

**Hû úgaun! Gen ú-velin!- Cowardly dog! I hate you!**

**Dôl gín cofn! Mítho orch!- Your head is empty! Go kiss an Orc!**

**Gerich thû sui orch- You smell like an Orc!**

**Dîn!- Silence!**

**Estelio enni- Trust me**

**Goheno nin- Forgive me**

**Ú-moe edaved!- It is not necessary to forgive**

** Name Translations (OCs): **

**Arveldir- Royal Friend (Sindarin)**


End file.
